“Might I," quavered Mary, "might I have a bit of earth?”

― Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

I’ve been dreaming of this space for quite a while, and I’m so delighted to unlatch the gate and invite you in.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the hidden life of an artist. For every luminous oil painting we behold, every tender violin sonata that graces our ears, there is a great deal of unseen work we aren’t even aware of.

I like to think of a fully formed song as a rose in full bloom, plucked at peak season and placed in a prized vase on your bedside table. Or a perfectly ripe pear eaten over the kitchen sink, juices dripping down your chin.

We rarely see the rose bush itself, the tree that bore the pear. Let alone the complex root systems below the soil, or the long, arduous process from seed to sprout to sapling. The weeding, the pruning, the storms that roll in. All that has brought the gift to fruition.

Any work of art is an amalgamation of an artist’s inner world and lived experience; their trials and triumphs, their dog-eared books, their well-worn neighbourhood paths, those they’ve loved, those they’ve lost, the ideas that didn’t work, the dreams they’ve both surrendered and realised, their posture in the world.

I could go on.

Even now, as I write about the rose in full bloom, I think of a painting I love by John William Waterhouse called ‘The Soul of the Rose’. When I write of eating a pear over the kitchen sink, juices dripping, I think of my Grandma telling stories of her father doing that very thing.

There is so much that sits behind anything we make. Countless threads are woven into a single song, and I’d love to share some of that unseen journey with you. To give you a glimpse into the hidden life of this artist.

It can be hard for artists to share their journey these days. We live in an overwhelmingly noisy time, and some days it can feel as if we’re whispering in a hurricane, especially if we happen to have a more introverted disposition.

While social media has its merits, it can feel quite cool and casual, built for quick, passive consumption. It’s an intimidating place to be vulnerable or offer stories of depth.

What is more, our late-modern culture loves nothing more than celebrating visibility - the obvious success, the impressive metrics, the tangible, polished outcome. But there is great dignity in the work that goes unnoticed; the mundane activity of daily life that is constantly forming us and our communities. The everyday rhythms, learnings, and explorations that may one day become traces in a work of art.

There is so much goodness in letting one another in on the journeys that lie behind what the world sees. In going that bit deeper - sharing the process, the mess, the real.

And so here we find ourselves in The Secret Garden, our little bit of earth. It’s a secluded, hidden, quiet sort of place brimming with beauty. Named after what is possibly my all-time favourite book, I love the idea of a secret space where seeds are sown. Where new growth has a chance to take root. Where the seasons are felt in turn. Where those who patiently tend the soil are themselves brought to life. Where the process of planting and pruning is as great a delight as the flowers themselves.

I’m so looking forward to our time in the garden together; sharing the thoughts I’m mulling over, little creative discoveries, easter eggs woven into my making, maybe even the odd voice-note demo. But, most of all, I’m hoping we can carve out a cosy wee space for ourselves here.

So come on in, slip off your shoes, sink your toes into the grass, and stay a while. I’m so glad you’re here.