White Owl Island

The potting shed on Owl Island has been calling me. It’s mid-February and my body and bones ache for warmth; my mind and soul yearn for the promise of renewal that planting brings. In times past, I’ve planted seeds for creativity and watched them quickly sprout, strengthen and flower, but not this time.

I’ve come to plant seeds for a friend who’s very dear to me. The seeds I’m looking for can’t be purchased at home and I don’t even know if they’re available in Lemuria. The sign nailed inside the shed door reads, “Here we can watch ideas germinate, grow and develop.” Hmmm, not quite what I had in mind.

None of the categories listed on the numerous drawers will help:seeds of wonder, seeding your poetry garden, fancy rhizomes for fiction writers, character seeds, journalistic bulbs, Harry Potter mandrake roots and on and on. It seems all the genres and needs are here but the one I need.

Then I remember, this is Lemuria, the hidden continent. These seeds will be tucked away out of sight. As I turn slowly, in the tiny shed, a shaft of light illuminates a corner of the sloping ceiling and reveals a packet the color of old wood and forest moss. Fading letters spell out “Seeds of Change”. The paper crackles when I touch it. It’s never been opened–either I’m the first to discover it or it’s been rejected by people who hate and fear change.

I choose a fairly large terracotta pot and fill it with ample soil mixed with a bit of peat moss to lighten it and help it hold water in a parched climate. The seeds are varied–some fine as dust others thick and tough. With my penknife, I make a slit in three of the larger ones, then soak them a few minutes to give them a head start. After they are planted deep, I sprinkle the delicate ones on top and cover lightly with soil and mist the pot thoroughly.


I pierce the packet with a stick, label it Heather’s seeds of change, and plunge it into the pot.

After yesterday’s noise and frivolity, I thought it would be soothing to spend some quiet ‘alone’ time.  There was an information booklet about The Potting Shed on the notice board and I had a read of it and decided that it would be just the thing.  I love growing things and I find gardening very relaxing.

I grabbed my hat, my sunnies and a basket and headed off.  The steward on duty at the gangplank told me that the way was well signposted and it was about a half-hour’s walk.  He pointed me to the start of the path, and true enough it was very well marked.  It was just a little track through the woods, wide enough for two people.  I met two or three people heading in the other direction and they were all carrying potted plants.  Can’t be far, I thought.

When I reached the shed there was a sign out the front;

This is a place of solitude – please, respect it.
If the door is closed, it is occupied. Please remain outside
until the visitor leaves. Thank you.

Well, the door was closed, so I plonked myself down on the seats provided and spent my waiting time studying the shed.  It’s a little stone structure with a wooden, farmhouse door; to the side of the door is a window and it has a thatched roof.   It’s built on a stone-paved, raised area and, naturally, is surrounded by plants.  I spy a stone rabbit guarding the entrance, too.  On the side facing me is a delightful, wicker addition – like a bay window – that also has a thatched roof.  I see a chimney, so this would be a very cosy hideout in the winter.  I sat daydreaming for about fifteen minutes before a young girl opened the door and skipped down the steps.  ‘These are for my mum,’ she said.  ‘They’re her favourite!’, and she skipped off through the woods with a huge smile on her face.

My turn!  I stepped inside and closed the door.  There was a stack of small, terracotta pots on the floor and a bin full of potting mix.  It had that lovely, earthy, musty smell with undertones of Blood and Bone, and I took a a few appreciative deep breaths through my nose.  There was a shelf along two walls, holding a row of wooden boxes.  Where the sun shone through the window onto some of them, they were labelled with words like Love, Laughter, Health, Healing, Success, Kindness and Remembrance.  Curious, I lifted down one of the boxes.  It contained a variety of seed packets.  I selected several and put them on the bench.

Over in the dark corner, where the sun didn’t shine, the boxes were covered in dust and cobwebs and had words like Revolution, Discontent, Anger, Conflict and Misery.  Thank goodness they didn’t get disturbed very often.

I wanted to give a little living gift to some of the friends I’d made on the ship, so I lined up my little pots and filled them with potting mix and carefully planted the seeds.  I couldn’t see a watering-can or a tap anywhere, but I eventually saw the goatskin waterbag hanging on the back of the door.  It was marked ‘Tears of the Goddess’.  I lifted it down with a bit of difficulty.  It was quite high up and rather weighty.  I sprinkled a few drops into each pot and then put it back behind the door.  By the time I had turned back, tiny green shoots were appearing in the pots. ‘Well, I never did!’ I said out loud.  (Some people call it talking to yourself, but I call it vocal thinking.)

I attached a little card to each pot, and placed them all in my basket.

For Heather a dark pink rose meaning ‘Thank you’ for all the work she does for the Soul Food Cafe and the SS Vulcania, and also a Zinnia (thoughts of absent friends) in remembrance of her beloved husband.
For Rosy, Wisteria (youth and poetry) for she has both.
For John and his wife, and Senua I’ve planted Pear Blossom for hope and also Peony for health and healing. For Vi and also Ted I’ve chosen the Blue Periwinkle for early friendship, and for Sally and Colleen I’ve planted Myrtle for love, mirth and joy simply because they are things all of us need in our lives.

My basket is packed solid and is quite heavy. I would love to take back pots for everyone, but it’s not physically possible. The spirit’s willing, but the flesh is weak!

I opened the door and gave a big smile to the man sitting waiting.  ‘You’ll love your time in there,’ I said and wandered off down the path lugging my basket full of pots. 

I placed my little gifts outside the cabin doors, and went off to dinner.

* The meanings of the flowers obtained from: http://www.iflorist.com/en/gifts/meaning/

The inside of the meditation tent was still and quiet and surprisingly empty of people. It was very humid and full of butterflies. They were so varied vivid green, blue, patterned. In the middle of the tent was a large hole with a sign saying “Short cut to the Potting Shed enter with care”. It was a very large hole and you couldn’t really see into it.

“Should I risk it,” I asked myself as I took a very yoga type breath. I looked into my walnut, was there anything within that could assist me. The wooden Owl spoke- “Take out the anchor and think on its meaning.”

“Anchors, what do anchors do.” They moor ships. They hook into sea beds. I looked closely at my anchor and had the sensation of seeing the history of anchors. E’s gift was indeed mysterious to have this effect.

The anchor spoke

The charming of the plough is so fitting for an anchor
For there are plough anchors that grip into the mud
I am sometimes a fisherman the anchor you know best
Or I can simply be a hook or even a mushroom
Once I was just a rock floating in the sea.

Yet there are other anchors travelers seek.
Those virtues that stop us floating out in the torrid
Seas of strife and keep us firm as the waves of tests come
Threatening to set humanity adrift
Values like ancient rocks moor us to the sea of everlasting life.

I paused and threw my tiny anchor into the hole as if it was the ocean. My tiny anchor became heavy and it pulled me down with it. I closed my eyes as the butterflies followed me into the short cut. It was strange to feel them all around me. As I opened my eyes I realized that I was for a brief time a caterpillar and then a butterfly. My time was short but brilliant. I was so comfortable with my butterfly wings then I became Unity again, and was standing in the centre of the potting shed.

How wondrous it was,  just like a lolly shop but for gardeners. Potting shed indeed,you know it was also like a green house, full of so many flowers and plants that were being repotted- and full of cuttings.

There were plants that did not look like plants I was used to, but were constructed out of objects. Artistic sculptural plants like a small tree made out of old furniture pieces, and a tree made out of wire and crystals. “Hello is anyone else here,” I said. “Ah you came through the short cut,” murmured an old man with a green turban who reminded me of an ancient tree he was so still and his hands so gnarled.

“So child… show me those seeds then and I will let you know how to nurture them,” he answered before I had even asked the question.

“Who are you?”

“I my child am the father of those two angels from the cave…”

© June Perkins words and image all rights reserved

© Potting Shed idea Soul Food

For more information on anchors go to - On Anchors

In former days, estates with greenhouses always had a potting room, a place to coax plants from seedlings to strength, until they were ready for the garden. Potting sheds are filled with pots of all sizes and shapes, right at hand, on shelves, ready to be grabbed. In the potting shed, when seedlings are just starting, gardeners carefully tend their treasures. From the first flurry of spring and on through the summer, a potting shed is the ideal locus for the muddy fingered work of transplanting young sprouts to bigger pots and dividing perennials. Unlike the shed you store your garden equipment in, the potting shed is a place where one can garden happily even on the rainiest of days. As days warm and containers need to be planted the shed becomes what it is – an essential part of the garden. While I was on Owl Island I took the time to visit the whimsical potting sheds at Owl House, the estate that is kept alive by volunteers who come to work and tend their special seeds. These potting sheds are not the norm. Here you can watch ideas germinate, grow and develop.