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Time began in a garden and if Adam hadn't eaten that apple, we might still be there! Instead we live in a world that forgets how things grow as it becomes increasingly urbanised and paved over with concrete and tar. Yet deep within us, there is a collective longing for that paradise lost.

My own Eden began in my mother's garden, more years ago than I choose to remember. Growing up in South Africa, my childhood memories are always of playing outside, whether climbing trees, feeding the chickens, picking fruit that seems so exotic now (guavas, mangoes and marulas that make elephants drunk when they ferment), making a "club house" behind a shed, riding bicycles with my brother, or trying to push the family dogs around in a wheelbarrow. We were always outside and it was a battle for my mother to get us in each evening. As I grew older, I became more interested in actually trying to get something to grow rather than simply playing, and accordingly I was given a small bed to cultivate. I remember experimenting with seeds and getting very excited when the first ones started to germinate. They were very forgiving nasturtiums that thrived on my neglect. I was a fickle gardener at eight years old, yet to learn the dedication and discipline required to do the job properly. A few radishes sprouted as well, but playing was more gratifying than growing things and my wise mother said nothing as my garden patch withered and died. She knew that when I planted those seeds, I was planting something far more important than a few flowers and vegetables. It was the start of a love affair that would last all my days. The time for it to germinate just hadn't arrived yet.

Fast forward many years. My husband and I had relocated to the U.S.A. and now came the thrilling moment when we became homeowners for the first time. I saw not only a house however, but a garden as well. I had become a garden-owner and those seeds that were planted on another continent, many years ago, finally felt the heat of passion that had been needed to make them germinate. Feeling very far away from my roots, I was delighted to discover that many of the same plants grew just as well in my new home in Northern California. (Not the guavas, mangoes and marulas however, but I could manage without those.) Working with the earth helped me to transplant, and once again my wise mother helped. When I wrote about my homesickness for Africa, she replied, "You have to bloom where you are planted."

My joys, successes and failures

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