With the soil in my soul, I never seem to tire of digging my hands into the earth creating magical spaces within this little acre or so that I live within, here, in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont.

I lift tiresome blocks of sod, amend, turn, and shape with the same passion as the artist who observes from some remote focal point, and then turns light or clay or form into something mesmerizing. Overgrown fields have been transformed, over several years, into flower, herb and vegetable gardens overflowing with color that delights the eye, smells that taunt the nose, and form inspiring one to pull out the easel and the paints, and go for broke.

Over the years, with much tenacity, this plot of land gently sloping to a meandering stream has been lovingly cultivated. The field once stretched almost to the back of the old house, threatening to consume it among common mallow and cantankerous vines. Slowly the field has been contained with the aid of mower and brushhog. New flower beds and shrubs have taken root and flourished. And as one approaches the declining path to the stream, wild tree roses have been tended to and have repaid my attention with a mass of pink flowers reaching upward and outward like a pirouetting ballerina.

With much accomplished, the stream became the next likely untamed spot ready for renovation. Grasses and vines were cut back providing space for the perennials and shrubs which were planted with much joy. Small sitting areas were cleared, stone steps were anchored into the slopes creating a series of paths and rooms in which to watch the stream flow and the kingfishers dance. The first year or so, everything flourished. Specimen plants were easily identifiable, shrubs sunk their roots into the moisture laden soil and the weeds were held in abeyance. Yet it seemed as if the weeds and cantankerous vines were more tenacious in this area. Slowly they took hold, and while the Japanese iris continued to pop up through almost anything along with the daylillies, the more we pulled the more these invaders prospered. Creeping phlox, which also has a mind of its own, became a cool encouraging mat for the grass that insisted on coming up through its delicate mass of blue flowers. Slowly, the perennials that I had added to this habitat were being consumed by the largess of the natural flora that would not relent to my pulling and cutting. It was as if they were telling me, quite definitively, they had been there first and had no intention of leaving. And so, I relented.

I have learned, with much blood, sweat and tears, there is a time to sit back and let Mother Nature take her course. In this case defeat has been sweet. The varieties that have once again established themselves do belong in this small natural habitat. The winding paths are still cleared, the sitting areas are still open, and a threatening vine still yanked, but additions that do so well in other areas are kept out. With very little work the stream has become a delightfully wild place to sit and do nothing. In pursuit of perfection I have also learned it is sometimes best to just let things just be.