Dinner in a garden. . .

Last evening I was in Waynesboro to hold another personal essay-writing workshop sponsored by the Waynesboro Cultural Commission; which for me, as someone who loves to write and talk with others about writing, is about as good a time as times get.

Before the workshop I met my friend and fellow journalist, Theresa Curry, for a quick and early supper at Waynesboro's Stone Soup, a quirky, lovely restaurant/bookstore that occupies an old farmhouse perched high on a hill beside Main Street.

I parked in front on the street. Climbing the steep steps to the little old house felt like climbing into a fairytale; flowers, flowers everywhere, and a small striped snail climbing with me. I was flanked on either side by mounds of  lavender and small green sprawling plants I can't name, but will look out for at nurseries so I can bring them home to sprawl in my own gardens. Who knew there were so many shades of green?

Theresa and I ate our soup and sandwich out on the back patio. There was garden, garden everywhere around us: nothing formal; every flower seemingly brought forth with a dowsing rod.

It wasn't a garden to admire as much as a garden simply to be in. And sitting there, talking with Theresa about books and words and life and journalism, I, for that one hour, did just that. I turned off the chatter in my head, let the to-do list fly away on the breeze, and stopped worrying about how to save the world through public radio. I became, for that hour in that garden, a kind of whole-person smile, at peace with myself and with the world.

I thought again about Devan Malore's fine Civic Soapbox essay last Friday about moving more slowly. This is not something I do easily, but last night I did it accidentally. Once again the wisdom of the Rolling Stones asserted itself: If you try sometime, you just might find, you get what you need.

If you are over-busy, over-worried, and most particularly, like me, occasionally overly self-important, I highly recommend dinner in a garden.