A Writer’s Eden: Virginia Woolf’s Day of Gardening Bliss
This botanical history post was featured on The Daily Gardener podcast:
May 31, 1920
On this day, dear gardening enthusiasts, we find ourselves transported to a quaint corner of England, where a 37-year-old Virginia Woolf, that luminary of literature, found herself elbow-deep in the rich soil of her new home's garden.
Picture, if you will, the esteemed author and her husband, Leonard, tending to their verdant paradise, a plot spanning three-quarters of a hectare, inherited with their home purchase the previous year.
Imagine the scene: mature apple trees, their gnarled branches reaching skyward; plum trees heavy with the promise of summer's sweetness; cherry blossoms perhaps still lingering in the late spring air; and pear trees standing sentinel over this literary Eden.
While Leonard was the more devoted horticulturist of the pair, Virginia seized every opportunity to immerse herself in the earthy delights of their garden.
On this particular day, Virginia penned in her diary words that might resonate with any ardent gardener:
The first pure joy of the garden... weeding all day to finish the beds in a queer sort of enthusiasm which made me say this is happiness.
Gladioli standing in troops; the mock orange out.
We were out till nine at night, though the evening was cold.
Both stiff and scratched all over today, with chocolate earth in our nails.
Can you envision it, dear readers?
The gladioli standing tall and proud, like nature's own regiment, their colorful blooms a stark contrast to the white purity of the mock orange blossoms.
The Woolfs, so enraptured by their horticultural pursuits, working well into the twilight hours, heedless of the encroaching chill.
And oh, the aftermath!
How many of us have experienced that peculiar satisfaction of aching muscles and soil-encrusted fingernails?
It's a badge of honor among gardeners, is it not?
A testament to our dedication and the earthly connection we forge with every weed pulled and seed sown.
Virginia's words, "this is happiness," resonate deeply. In the simple act of tending to her garden, this literary giant found a joy as pure and untroubled as the blooms she nurtured. It's a sentiment many of us can appreciate, that moment when the world narrows to the plot before us, and our worries melt away like morning dew.
As we tend to our own gardens today, let us channel a bit of Virginia Woolf's spirit.
May we find that "queer sort of enthusiasm" in our tasks, be they weeding, planting, or simply basking in the beauty we've cultivated.
And perhaps, as the day wanes, we too might find ourselves reluctant to leave our green sanctuaries, even as the evening air grows cool.
Remember, dear gardeners, there's a certain poetry in the act of gardening, a story written in furrows and flowers.
What tale does your garden tell?
