When I was a girl, I spent the summers with my grandparents in Dublin, Ireland. My brothers stayed at my dad’s parents while me and my sister stayed at my mum’s parents. I loved it there and it’s a place that has already featured in several of my comics. At the back of the main garden, with its beautiful lawn and carefully tended flower beds, there was a tall hedge. Behind this hedge was a smaller, wilder garden, complete with crooked apple tree, falling down shed, and rusty wheelbarrow. I named it ‘The Witch’s Garden’ and spent many happy hours there, playing and dreaming.
I was so sad when my grandparents’ house was eventually sold, more so than for any other house I’ve known. My first response was to grab some felt tip pens and draw a picture of the garden as a way to keep it forever. While I was making this spread, I connected back in time to that magical garden and also to that place within myself – wild and witchy – where the garden still lives.
It felt powerful to include the three ages of woman here – maiden, mother, and crone. I was drawing on my sense of being a child all those years ago in Dublin, but also bringing the magical quality of that place forward in time into womanhood and also into the future, where I hope to be as cool as this Finnish woman with twigs on her head!
This spread was made as part of the wonderful Totems class with Vanessa Oliver-Lloyd, bringing together all the elements we have been working with during the course: spirit animals, archetypes, elemental magic, and claiming the female. The text is from a poem I wrote some years ago, inspired by entering The Witch’s Garden as an adult.
I look into the mirror.
The muscles round my mouth
are tired from smiling.
The wind whispers in my ear
three secrets held in cobweb, leaf, and twig.
Cheek gives way to bone.
Eyes transform from pools of water into fire.
Curls become snakes,
darting in all directions.
Brambles tangle round the apple tree.
A few snails remain,
clinging to the gravel on the walls.
Across cracked stone,
the ants carry parcels of moonlight.
I listen for her footsteps but the air is still.
Even the wheelbarrow has stopped rusting.
I have entered The Witch’s Garden.