Though I still can’t quite imagine feeling so bound to a place that I can begin the process of homeownership, I often fantasize about our future garden. I dream of fairy doors tucked under stumps, meandering flashes of moss, and strange overgrown sculptures emerging from every cluster of plants – as though some eccentric lost city lies beneath our herbs and flowers.
I experienced a similar cultivated wonder when visiting this tiny plot of teapots yesterday – and certainly found myself inspired to imagine how I might integrate some mismatched ceramics into a hypothetical garden of my own.
Charming creatures of all sculptural sorts inhabit the area around the “tea garden.” I wonder if that bird ever shakes her way out of stillness at night and flaps inside her matching house?
Now I’ll pause this sylvan idyll for a few serious words.
As you might have guessed, I’m visiting home for the first time in over a year, and I’m experiencing the consequences of our current natural disaster firsthand. Earthquakes rattle our house daily, the main highway is at risk of cracking apart (and cutting us off), and the lava fields surrounding the town are blanketed with white ash. The national park – where my dad works [or used to work, now] and where I spent so many childhood days – has been closed for months.
Of course, my town is one of the lucky ones. Just about an hour away from here, hundreds of people have lost their homes (over 700 of them) to the approaching lava. If you have a chance (and some change to spare), I’d encourage you to check out some ways to provide relief and support to those who have been displaced.
On this particular visit, I’ve doing my best to patronize local businesses because the closing of the national park has demolished tourism to my hometown, and restaurants and galleries (including the enchanting place where these teapots live!) are striving to stay open. If you happen to find yourself in our town, please stop by for a few hours – there’s lots to do!