Plant Dreaming Deep: A Journal

Plant Dreaming Deep: A Journal

May Sarton

Language: English

Pages: 192


Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

After a peripatetic life, forty-five-year-old May Sarton longed to put down roots and found them in New Hampshire in the form of a dilapidated eighteenth-century farmhouse with good bones . . . It was the realization of a dream that had been a long time coming

In Plant Dreaming Deep, Sarton shares an intensely personal account of transforming a house into a home. She begins with an introduction to the enchanting village of Nelson, where she first meets her house. Sarton finds she must “dream the house alive” inside herself before taking the major step of signing the deed. She paints the walls white in order to catch the light and searches for the precise shade of yellow for the kitchen floor. She discovers peace and beauty in solitude, whether she is toiling in the garden or writing at her desk.

This is a loving, beautifully crafted memoir illuminated by themes of friendship, love, nature, and the struggles of the creative life.

This ebook features an extended biography of May Sarton.

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photography. He set up shop in Keene. There he met Mildred, and there his real life began. Quig never had an easy time of it, but in his life he was given two great pieces of luck. The first was when he happened on that haunting, intense, reserved face of a young woman whose own circumstances had made her, if not morose, determined to go it alone. She had paid no attention to him when he and two friends of his were seated at her table in the crowded restaurant, nor did she even smile when he

apartment until at last my parents owned their own house. Would these great pieces of our lives now rot in that cellar, unloved, uncherished, like so much old lumber? After a year they began to haunt me as if they were animals kept underground and dying of neglect. How long would they stay alive? And how long would the life in me stay alive if it did not find new roots? I behaved like a starving man who knows there is food somewhere if he can only find it. I did not reason anything out. I did

old Belgian furniture must be rescued from that cellar. If “home” can be anywhere, how is one to look for it, where is one to find it? For me, there was no ancestral “connection” that might have drawn me here or there, no magnet that might have narrowed down the possible choices. I could settle anywhere within a wide perimeter of Cambridge, for I intended to keep what I would not part with, my life with Judy, my place in her house, and the friends of many years. People, meanwhile, began to

part of this landscape that we had come to take him for granted like some sturdy deep-rooted tree that would surely outlive us all. Then, quite suddenly, he was not there, leaving a huge empty space in the air, as my old maple had done after it was cut down. Death frames the essential. What was framed for us on that final day is hard to put into words, elusive. Perhaps what we mourned was a whole man. All the fragments of a life that had sometimes seemed to scatter itself among too many gifts

pigs, goats, a pet sheep or two, two ponies, and a magnificent donkey called Esmeralda. Married sons cluster at the foot of the hill, staying close to the family farm. It remains a small truly rural corner in a township that has almost ceased to be farming country, and as such it is precious. When I feel the need of a change I drive up a series of steep hills to that secret eyrie of theirs to see what is going on, for the Warners, struggling hard to keep afloat, are in the middle of a thousand

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