The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt Quotes

“It would be two years before the townspeople crowded around to see the peculiar garden of Harriet Hunt, gawping at her floral creations, the trees she had made grow in such a short span of time, the beauty of it all.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“Although Harriet found fulfillment in the vegetable patch and the food it provided them, she discovered that she was most drawn to the small mounds of untended earth that sat around the grounds.
Nearer to the house and along the rock wall, Harriet could feel traces of flowers too--- more intentionally planted at some point in this home's history. Whenever she placed her palms on the earth, she was both reading its vibrations and giving something of herself to it. It was an exchange that she was beginning to understand more, certain now that it started with her. She had a unique touch that somehow awakened an urgent attentiveness in flowers and other plants, and then, once they blossomed, they became whatever she needed them to be. A sort of call-and-response. Here, she could be her full self, and the plants responded beautifully to that. She supposed she'd never been her full self anywhere before, which was why she hadn't understood the depth of her own abilities.
This morning, she could feel the presence of once-grown peonies and lily of the valley in the earth beneath her. Her heart leapt as she watched the peony stems grow to life and then the layers of pink peel open before her eyes--- an offering, a blessing, a study in delicate beauty. It was more like a dream than her reality, especially as it was still not yet spring. With another touch, she prepared the way for the wispy, hanging flower bells, but she did not stop there. She moved her way around the stone wall, sensing which flowers wanted to grow here, and she gave them life. Growing these flowers gave Harriet something tangible to focus on, and she hoped the fragrances and colors cheered Eunice and Lewis as much as they cheered her.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“Harriet understood now that she'd always had more control over the garden than she'd ever known. Perhaps control wasn't the right word. It was an understanding--- some strange understanding both she and the plants had together. Either way, she knew now that she could ask this garden, any garden, to respond to her touch, to her thoughts, her emotions, and it would respond.
She let her hands fall to the bare earth and closed her eyes. She began to push happiness from her heart, down her arms, and out through her hands. The feeling was so intense, so filled with love that tears brimmed along her eyelashes. Eunice breathed steadily beside her, while the insects nearby hummed busily, and the smell of freesias filled her head.
Eunice gasped, and Harriet opened her eyes to see a green thread of life prodding up through the dirt, exploring the air above, doubling in size with each passing moment. She watched her cousin examine the bud as it unfurled into a tiny cream primrose with a sunshine-yellow center.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“Listening to Eunice's lullabies wafting through the nursery window, Harriet placed her palms on top of the earth. She allowed the sweetness of the moment to seep down through her hands into the soil. A tear escaped and splashed into the dirt. The buds responded immediately. She watched one, bent and brown, begin to unfold into a vibrant purple freesia, opening layer by beautiful layer, then turn to face Harriet.
Harriet used her touch to sprout butter-yellow dahlias and sweet pink fuchsias, forget-me-nots the color of dusk and honeysuckle that dripped with nectar. Before long, Eunice's flower garden was a wild array of colors and scents, as if summer had skipped right over winter and spring. Bees roused from their nests, swarming hungrily from blossom to blossom, and Harriet spotted more than one eager blue tit exploring the newly bloomed gooseberry bush.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“She took another step into the wood, and then another, and as she moved in deeper, she was overwhelmed by the way the forest was attuned to her. Branches lowered themselves down, low enough for her to reach a hand up and stroke the bare bark, low enough for them to tickle the skin of her arms. Soon, her surprise turned into understanding. She knew what this feeling was now. She knew what was happening. It was the same elation she experienced when her garden's roses craned their necks out of concern for her. It was the same tingle that consumed her when the plum tree bent its branches to shade her on sunny days. Only now, in these dense woods, as far from her garden as she'd ever been, it was stronger than ever before. She became part of this forest as soon as she entered it, and it was a part of her. They could communicate. They could be as one, without a single word spoken.
Filled with wonder, Harriet sat beneath the biggest tree in the wood. As she did, she heard a familiar rustling noise. Within seconds, curious tendrils of ivy appeared at her side, wrapped eagerly around her legs, and climbed over her hands. Harriet stayed very still. This ivy was different from the ivy in her garden--- it was more childlike in its embrace, more impatient. There was a kind of discovery in the way the tendrils wrapped around and beneath her that was new to them both. But soon, all foreignness was gone, for Harriet was lifted off the ground to lie on a silken pillow of ivy created just for her. Harriet let herself relax into it. We move because of you, the ivy whispered to her, and the trees hummed in agreement. You are exceptional, the wood told her. The words did not come as a person's voice. They came as the warm, whistling breeze, the rustle of branches, the titters of a bird. A sylvan lullaby.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“The way she was perceived had nothing to do with who she was. She was as wild and unruly as ever, just like the tumbling brambles in her garden. She didn't need to be prim or well-behaved to be good.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“She carried with her a tender caress for the stems and petals she meant to harvest, thanking them for their beauty and letting them give themselves over to her rather than taking them en masse with reckless haste. She knelt beside the patch of Christmas roses that grew beneath the parlor window. Harriet wondered, as she had a thousand times, how this flower could withstand the colder months with petals so delicate. Small white faces with pale yellow middles turned to look up at Harriet, almost adoringly, and she let their gaze infuse her with warmth. This is how they do it, she thought. They are filled with the magic of love. It was impossible for her to be out in her garden and not feel the love all around, almost consuming her, even on this cold, dreary day.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“A crown of thorns," he said, leaning into the room. "You ought to be careful."
Harriet's hair was stuck in with a few wilting roses and thick tangles of thorns. She looked like a woman of the garden, born to the roses herself. She had somehow convinced her husband that dressing in this rather than in some ghoulish mask was superior, and though any kind of costume would have been uncomfortable, she supposed she would prefer to be surrounded by thorns she had saved from when she'd pruned back the garden. Something about it strengthened her.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“Below her, bluebells swayed back and forth in the cool autumn breeze. They would last only another week or so, she knew. And then, the garden would change. The hawthorn would flaunt more red berries while the roses would crinkle and wither, allowing the sour orange hips to bloom freely in their place. Beneath her bedroom window, she would begin to smell the sweet aroma of winter honeysuckle, and at the front of the house, delicate white snowdrops and Christmas roses would soon bloom. The plum tree would lose its fruit, and its leaves would turn and drop, and its branches would extend in all directions like gnarled limbs.
And, of course, there would be thorns. So many thorns.
The ivy, on the other hand, would not change one bit. It would not stop growing. It would not cease moving about as it pleased. It would glow that earthly green all year long. The ivy held everything together--- the house, the garden, even Harriet at times--- no matter what the season.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“She'd become accustomed to letting the garden grow uncontrolled since her father left. And that had suited both Harriet and the garden. They'd both been free to move about as they liked, to behave how it felt natural to behave. Harriet's decision not to prune was why the vines climbed so high along the house this summer, why the roses covered the garden walls and the blackberry brambles spread out as they did, decorating the bricks between the house and the railroad tracks with as many brilliant green leaves as menacing thorns. It was why the plum tree's fruit lay about the place all summer and its flowers bloomed brilliantly in the spring. It was why the bluebells stood in their own self-proliferating patches beneath the trees and rosebushes and wherever they pleased. Why her evergreen hedges were not neatly trimmed and why the hawthorn tree at the front towered over the gate. Her garden was filled with so much fierce beauty, she knew it would not take kindly to being clipped to the quick.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“But the plum tree lowered its branches and fanned leaves out wide to protect her from the chill, and soon, she was snug in her little nest. The cabbage roses bathed her in the smells of honey and leaned in to sing that sweet song they always did--- the one Harriet could not name, could not even be certain she could truly hear or only felt inside her chest. And the bluebells arched into her touch as she traced a delicate finger up their bowed stems.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“She smiled at the thought, wondering why having anything for herself was so difficult. It had been the same for her mother, of course—she had never sold a painting; she’d kept that lovely skill a secret, and in so doing, she’d never had anything that truly belonged to her. She’d had a husband, and that was supposed to be enough.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt

“The garden itself was enjoying the painted-on brightness of the day. The flowers were in full bloom--- the dramatic pink of the Duchess of Sutherland roses and the flesh-colored Madame Audots met Harriet's eye as she stepped out of the house. Flanking those stood the La Reines with their silvery undertones and the cabbage roses to the right. The cabbage roses, though they did not have a grand name, were Harriet's favorite. More layers inside one flower than she could even count. She inhaled the sweet smell of the Duchesses and watched as every last bloom turned to face her as she padded barefoot from the door onto the stone walkway, bordered by lush green moss. Satisfied that Harriet was content, the flowers resumed their nourishing tilt toward the sky. The stones were cool beneath her feet.”
― Chelsea Iversen, The Peculiar Garden of Harriet Hunt