Garden Dreamland

The fog of last night's journey through dreamland didn't dissolve at the ringing of my 8:30 alarm. Instead it lingered, and I was entrapped in its mystique all day. 

All night long I was floating between scenes involving food: first a street festival put on by local farmers and hippie-youngsters, who served stir-fried veggies underneath white collapsable canopies in some courtyard in downtown Honolulu, supported by the upbeat background music; then a harvest festival at Rosenhill (the farm in Sweden where I lived and wwoofed) where everyone was on a mission to harvest as much as possible. The first scene left a slight impression on me, but it was almost as if I didn't belong there. At Rosenhill everyone was working so well together to put on this amazing celebration of food and togetherness and I glided in with the party like music. I met Emilia (Mama Farmer who was diagnosed with horrible cancers about a year and a half ago, and whom I think about a lot) in the entrance of the banquet, and she squeezed me into the warmest hug ever, the sort that you might imagine a fairytale grandma would give. Upon embracing me, we both wept, and I'm not convinced of the nature of these tears. Were they joyous in honor of us being together on such a grand occasion, or were they tears of parting? At that point in the dream I had the urge to run out and harvest the last squashes, which I remembered grew forgotten behind an old cottage at the edge of the property. I sprinted up the hill and the sunlight was waning, casting everything in a golden spell. Two little boys ran up along my side and I took them by the hand to show them the squashes. We made our up the hill together and found three massive, white and thorny squashes curled up under the shade of their prickly-furry leaves. We severed the stems that held them captive and reappeared at the entrance of the banquet, not a scratch upon our fingers, as if we were immune to the heirlooms' thorns. 

Rosenhill's golden glow, fall 2012

At that point I awoke, puzzled, not yet transported from the haze of my dream. My morning passed slowly, and when I went outside to make my first cup of coffee I felt my arugula speaking to me. As crazy as it sounds, I—sitting cross-legged on my garden bench with a steaming cup in my hand— heard my garden talk to me. Not literally, of course. I cocked my head to one side and decided that I must harvest it all. Something possessed me. The dream was leading me to do this, surely. 

I set down the cup, and with bare hands harvested every last leaf of arugula. I could feel its glee as I uprooted it. I turned my hand upon the beet greens, fascinated by their readiness to be picked. I continued to listen, and my carrots screamed up at me to loosen them from the suffocating soil. They squealed with delight as they emerged from their darkness. 

Oh, the sweet, nostalgic scent of freshly pulled carrots. It doesn't compare with anything. I smelled my carrots and then smelled them again, closing my eyes and remembering this past fall at Rosenhill, and then remembering my childhood in Germany when my cousin and I secretly unearthed his mother's premature carrots and nibbled them while taking a break from our soccer game. 

I felt the soil breathe; it beckoned me to remove the beets. Up they came, liked gnarly, devilish gargoyles, their long roots trailing far across the garden bed. It was time. Before I knew it, the garden bed was empty, save for the three struggling lettuces that I'd planted three weeks ago. Now it was their turn to shine. I stepped back, removed my load from the scene, and then harvested every last leaf of baby chard that I'd started in those yogurt containers back in May 2012. To finalize things, I removed the tops of my basil and breathed out a sigh of relief. My garden could also breathe again. And we'd all be having a delicious dinner. 

I can't quite describe what overcame me this morning, but it felt like I was on the right path, guided by something else. I definitely have a connection with plants, but I have never encountered such a spiritual bond with my carrots before. Perhaps its the lingering DMT from my dream. Perhaps I'm just being ridiculous. But it felt like the rightest thing I could have done today. And I really hope that Emilia is okay. Why were we crying...?