I like to grow a garden, both figuratively and literally speaking. My earliest childhood memories are those of the light in the garden lying under the apple tree on a sunny day, light winks at me through tender spring leaves taking on a life of it’s own. My grandmother had a green thumb; her spectacular tulips growing on both sides of a narrow walkway to our small summer cottage, an hour away from Moscow, were envy of our neighbors. It was my chore to help collect black currant so my mother and grandmother used whatever did not make it to my tummy to make sweet preserves for winter. I think I was five at a time. Some years later when my...
