Fall on the Farm

I’ve often thought that if there is a space on Earth which most resembles heaven, it’s the Blue Ridge Parkway, or …

the former Christmas tree farm my husband inherited.

I haven’t written a lot lately.

Perhaps, like the seasons change, I transition in my seasons of grief over the loss of our daughter, Corrie, three years ago.

Everyone grieves differently, and just because our daughter died, we never stopped loving her.

Throughout the three years, I’ve experienced the raw heart on my sleeve, frantic writing, anger meets a Hurricane of depression, learning how to handle someone reacting to my grief in a negative way and releasing them from my life, and then privacy and reflection.

Since the late spring, I’ve transitioned into more reflection becoming ever more private. But one of the most important events that has helped me in my journey is Corrie’s gardens.

She has three. The first started to host the live plants bought by people who sent their sympathies before and during her funeral. My dad envisioned a butterfly garden from a dream and led the beginning of it, my husband laid the ground work, and in the effort, I learned how to garden.

Three years ago, during COVID-19 from March to May, I knew nothing about gardens. I was a brown thumb. When my dad spoke to me about gardens, I grew bored quickly.

With Corrie’s Butterfly Garden, everything changed. I threw myself into learning everything about how to garden, soil types, regions, and shade v. sun. Then I envisioned the Arendelle Garden–a large, mostly full sun, area.

The other garden, a shade garden with Coral bells and rhododendron, came by accident. It’s called obviously, the Cora Bell Garden.

Corrie loved rain boots, flowers and dreamed of her own garden. She’d grab a watering can and want to water her grandmother’s former flower bed after it had rained.

Often I’ll feel her with me as I plant, prep and rip up the ground to place new life.