Because Snow who Melts Somewhere says we must dream.
I invite her and all the dreamers to come away with me, but especially the girl I knew as Dreamy who writes poetry and survives at Robin Dalton: a lingering rose, and another by the name of Julie at Wish I Were Here who writes like a dream. Every time I finish a post of hers, I feel lifted up where we all belong.
But now to the hidden garden. When people, especially in Slovenia, hear that I live in Tuscany, they must imagine something like this. Well, one can dream.
No, this isn’t my garden. I wish. It is part of the private property in Pescia Fiorentina near Niki de Saint Phalle’s Tarot Garden (Il giardino dei tarocchi) fifteen minutes from me that had an open door day last June so I pounced.
Upon return I had to admit to amore barely audibly, teeth grinding, that capitalism might not be all that bad.
Still, the thing I loved best was not any luxurious sitting arrangement or swimming pool but the very socialist meadow in the featured photo, the prettiest one I’ve ever seen.
And yet, imagine all this is yours.