The house was awake—the thump and creak of feet on the floorboards, clanking of crockery, and the dull grinding that signified Betsey wielding the mortar and pestle. I picked up my basket and shears and walked out the back door to greet the day.

The garden was my refuge, my brief respite from the terrible war that boiled all around us. The flora and fauna of our garden piqued all of my senses and washed away melencholy. The delicate, melodic birdsong and hum of the bees gratefully replaced the clumsy thuds and knocks of the house within my consciousness. The butterflies and bees flitted from flower to flower, gathering their bounty. I stopped to observe an azure butterfly alight a coneflower and unroll its proboscus to collect the sweet dew. A sparkle from the bean trellises caught my eye—strings of crystalline dew framed a black and yellow garden spider who was patiently waiting for her breakfast.

I clipped a few handfuls of comfrey, borage, and mint, and breathed in the fresh, verbacious scent. I rubbed a velvety sage leaf and released its herbal aroma, which always made me think of roasted turkey or rabbit. As I walked along the rows, I pulled the weeds to feed to the chickens. My neat, orderly rows quieted my thoughts as I considered my plans for harvest and use. Though war has complicated much here, Almighty God has blessed us with bountiful gardens—there were very few ailments which I could not treat.

Patch was stalking something between the rows of turnips, making a game out of his meal. Clea, however, could not be bothered with such feline excitement. She stretched out in blissful repose on the garden brick path, enjoying the sun before the day grew too hot.

“Grace! It is such a beautiful morning—let us break our fast out in the garden. I will cut a few cucumbers, to go with it.” I clipped two cucumbers, warm from the morning sun.

As I walked back towards the kitchen, I stopped short to clip a large handful of camomile, for cordial and tea. I stood transfixed by the dainty, perfectly shaped flower. For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on the faster it grows, said Shakespeare’s Falstaff. So, too, does liberty.