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“They were part of a forest, an ecosystem that is perfect because of its wide variety of species, dominant because nothing is not allowed to be there. In the forest, everything that is inclined to thrive really does, and has a job, and some jobs are to grow things up and some jobs are to take things apart and everything is accepted because there is no notion—among bacteria and moss and busy mice—there is no notion of who deserves to do something or be in a place. There are only lives to be lived, and they are everywhere.”
― Jenny Slate, Little Weirds

“When nighttime came, the rocking chairs creaked. Waves lulled the girl and her cottage to sleep.”
― Kelly Jordan

“Just because something comes easily to you, does not mean it has no value. You find it effortless because you love it, and that is why it is your gift.”
― Katie O'Neill, The Tea Dragon Society

“How about you tell me which plants are which, and we'll... organize them. So that they all have the chance to thrive. We can designate areas for different kinds of plants and transplant the rest outside the fence. Like at the library." She walked toward the east side of the garden. "Here's the Nonfiction section. Vegetables only here."
"New Studies and Treaties," Caz said, designating an area at the front of the Nonfiction section. "Your seeds can go here. And in the back, Histories--- that's the old growth."
"In the front of the cottage, Fiction. That'll be all the flowers."
"What about the berries?"
"Journals of Scientific Papers," she decided, because of the way the brambles both supported and strangled one another. "Along the far fence.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop

“Hidden in the broom cupboard of Rose Cottage are two grand gates that lead to the loveliest little house you've ever seen. Nutmouse Hall. Shh, don't tell anyone... No one knows it's there...not even Arthur and Lucy who live in Rose Cottage.

This is the home of Tumtum and Nutmeg...”
― Emily Bearn

“There, in the warmth of the sun, the protection of the woods, and with the lake as my constant companion, I was free to be my true self. In this place, grades and appearances were not measured, and love was not conditional. I
was unshackled from the expectations of others, my spirit as light as the breeze off the lake. I became the golden girl reborn.”
― Kristyn Jewell, Poppy and Pa

“When we reached The Point, we would first feel the slimy, rough rock below our bellies, as if being lifted on the back of a whale. We would pull ourselves along the rock’s massive underwater surface, careful to not graze our hands or knees, then climb up above the water, standing tall beside the tower of rocks. We spent the rest of our time sliding down its slippery backside, over and over again—our own natural playground.”
― Kristyn Jewell, Poppy and Pa

“Late afternoons were for resting in the hammock that hung between the Three Sisters, my favourite trio of birch trees, a book resting on my chest. Other days, I would follow my imagination around our property, my bare feet sinking into pillows of soft moss and rough lichens as I climbed up rock faces or followed a path of fallen pine needles. I would name each plant and tree around me as I filled my pockets with acorns, my soles hardened by the end of the summer.”
― Kristyn Jewell, Poppy and Pa

“She was pleasantly surprised at how much remained. Her parents had abandoned a heap of old Caltreyan clothes. Selecting one of the island dresses, Kiela shook it out. Dust plumed in the air. The skirt was a quilt of blue--- sky blue, sapphire blue, sea blue--- all stitched together with silvery thread and hemmed with silver ribbon, and the bodice was a soft white blouse. Not at all a city style, but it was perfect for a picnic in a garden or a stroll on a shore. With a few repairs, she could wear a lot of her mother's abandoned clothes, and she could use her father's for... She wasn't sure what, but they were nice to have. She'd find a use for them. If nothing else, she could chop the fabric up into cleaning rags. Or perhaps learn to quilt? There was a moth-eaten blanket in one closet, in addition to the old quilts on the daybed and her parents' bed. Each quilt had its own pattern--- one was comprised of colors of the sunset and sewn in strips like rays of light, while another was the brown and pale green of a spring garden with pieces cut like petals and sewn like abstract flowers. We left so many beautiful things behind. She'd had no idea. She'd been too little to help much with the packing, though she remembered she'd tried. Carrying an armful of clothes into the kitchen, Kiela dumped them into the sink to soak in water. She planned to use the excess line from the boat to hang them out in the sun to dry. They'll be even more beautiful once they're clean.
The kitchen cabinet produced more treasures: a few plates, bowls, and cups. Each bowl was painted with pictures of strawberries and raspberries, and the plates were painted with tomatoes and asparagus. The teacups bore delicate pictures of flowers.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop

“A breeze whisked across the garden, and the leaves shimmered in the sunlight as they fluttered. She inhaled the heavy scent of green, growing things--- she could smell a hint of honey within the breeze, and she didn't know which flowers it came from. Prickly bushes with pale flowers filled one corner, and shoots with balls of purple flowers towered over another. She breathed in again and thought the nobles in Alyssium would have paid fistfuls of money to smell as light and lovely as the air on Caltrey. Just breathing it in made her feel like she was waking up after a night of perfect, deep sleep. She'd never felt quite so aware of the taste and feel of the air, or of the sounds of the birds and the gentle rustle of leaves. It made her feel like she could tackle any challenge--- if only she knew exactly how.”
― Sarah Beth Durst, The Spellshop

“the old house,
in the lee of the hills,
surrounded by relics
of the old powder mill.

the ancient stones silent,
the water wheels still,
but yet there is life
in the ruins of the mill.

the birds and the sheep
find shelter to sleep
the fisherman fish
in the river so deep.

the flowers of the forest
carpet the glades.
and the frogs they are leaping
down in the lades.

laughter bygone
forever is still
yet the echoes still linger
here in the mill.

voices come whispering
from the century that was
and dash is just resting
under the moss.

on nights of bright moon
flooding over the hill
I sense the life breathing
here, in the mill.

and here in the house
time beats gently past
as it has done before
and will to the last.”
― Christine Marion Fraser, Green Are My Mountains

“But despite heavy clouds, a feeling of contentment hangs in the air, coming from the kitchen's ability to be two things at once: to be an enclosed space that effectively opens up the world through taste and flavor and imagination. Nature comes in here. Pomegranate seeds on rice dishes, a strip of orange peel for a negroni, or a ribbon of lemon skin for a martini. A lime wedge for gin. A bowl of ripening pears. A jar of dates. Peaches roasted in rose water and stuffed with marzipan. Blackberries scattered on pancakes. Apricots cinched in chutney. Memories of melons, and the vine pergolas and fruit trees of summer, of prized Uzbek cherries carried in boxes across borders. The kitchen is an orchard.”
― Caroline Eden, Cold Kitchen: A Year of Culinary Travels