In my mind’s eye I see ferns and mosses, their spring-hued greens sparkling against the dark conifers pointing up to the sky behind. Ancient plants, all of them. And so while it could be a scene from the pre-Cambrian, I sense that this is somehow my future, the garden that I am being called to root myself into after a lifetime of migration.
As a traveller I have learned to start with the destination and work backward, planning my route with airport abbreviation, time zone and dialling prefix, but in this case I have no such three-letter codes or numbers to communicate with, only this elusive sense of a place that feels familiar yet whose name I do not know.
The garden in my mind's eye holds resemblances to places I have lived in the past: the temperate rainforests of Oregon, abounding in evergreens and ferns. The Himalayan foothills of northern India, where the wind sighs through the pines in a similar way this landscape sings to me. The softly mossed rocks and magical mists of far northern Norway.
But perhaps it is none of those known territories, and its flora and features could be from many different parts of the world, from the coasts of South America to the Baltic countries of Europe.
Where is my garden, the place calling me home?