I live in rural Scotland, in a village of sixty-five houses, with no cell service or shops. There is a kirk, a pub; there are more sheep than people. For the first time in my life, I have a garden. A garden with more square footage than my five-hundred-year-old house. There are roses and thistles, poppies and peonies, geraniums and blueberries and apple trees and weeds. Weeds which would grow waist-high, if we let them. Goosegrass, bindweed, ground elder. Chickweed, clover, ragwort, common dandelion. I didn’t used to know these names.
