Plant Dreaming Deep: A Journal

Plant Dreaming Deep: A Journal

May Sarton

Language: English

Pages: 192

ISBN: B00LG8Z76C

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.

Madame Curie: A Biography

Dearest Jane... My Father's Life and Letters

Alone Across the Pacific Ocean: Three Hundred Days of Rowing Solo Across the Pacific

The Honest Life: Living Naturally and True to You

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

roads, through farmland and villages, much of it through woods and open field; it passes Groton, surely one of the loveliest of towns, with its stately houses set back on immaculate green lawns under the flowing fountains of wine-glass elms; and finally it climbs over a steep range of hills before coming into Peterborough. In October there are half a dozen roadside stands on the way, rich cornucopias spilling out pumpkins, every kind of squash, eggplants, lettuce, beets, carrots, and apples, with

millions to hospitals, symphony orchestras, and the founding of colleges for the underprivileged. I enjoy beginning this chronicle with an evocation of two ancestors because in this house all the threads I hold in my hands have at last been woven together into a whole—the threads of the English and Belgian families from which I spring (Flanders and Suffolk), the threads of my own wanderings in Europe and in the United States, and those shining threads, the values willed to me by two remarkable

(At least once each spring, I see the daffodils and crocuses completely covered by snow after they have flowered.) I was to learn that the snow is kind—“poor man’s fertilizer,” they call it—but that frost is the killer. And we have had frost in Nelson at one time or another in every month except July. So through all of April and through most of May we are still suspended. The birds come before the leaves and flowers—warblers on their way north, the first fat robins to stay, running and stopping,

of something that resisted. Could lovely clear water ever be reached by such a brutal process? Then, one morning, the stout, friendly young man who bossed the outfit knocked at the door to tell me that they had struck a boulder and would have to use dynamite to get through. Would it be safe? I asked. (They were drilling only ten feet from the house.) He assured me that they would take every precaution, and, as evidence, brought out an old mattress they intended to stuff into the mouth of the

inherited a rich store from Channing Place; but I was rather weak on ordinary useful things, like a toaster or a laundry basket. At this point the miracle of friendship, which has come to renew the mystique of the house so many times since, began to manifest itself. My friends realized that my whole relation to the place was a little like that of an old maid who suddenly gets married. And pieces of their lives began to come to me to share in the adventure. So Rosalind Greene gave me her mother’s

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