“I had a pleasant time with my mind, for it was happy,” Louisa May Alcott wrote in her diary just after she turned eleven, a quarter-century before Little Women bloomed from that uncommon mind — a mind whose pleasures andher father wove into the philosophical and scientific education he gave his four daughters. The progressive philosopher, abolitionist, education reformer, and women’s rights advocate Bronson Alcott (November 29, 1799–March 4, 1888) developed his ideas about human flourishing and social harmony by observing and reflecting on the processes, phenomena, and pleasures of the natural world — something he shared with the Transcendentalists of his generation, and particularly with his best friend: the Ralph Waldo Emerson.
In 1856, while living next door toin Boston — the seedbed of Transcendentalism, a term Peabody herself had coined — Alcott borrowed and devoured Emerson’s copy of a book sent to him by an obscure young Brooklyn poet as a token of gratitude : Walt Whitman’s , published months earlier. Whitman’s unexampled so free from the Puritanical conventions of poetry, so lush with a love of life, so unabashedly respectful of nature as the only divinity — stirred a deep resonance with Bronson’s worldview and inspired him to try his hand at the portable poetics of nature: gardening.
Alcott set up his humble urban garden in the middle of bustling Boston, where his young country was beginning to find its intellectual and artistic voice. One May morning — a century and a half before bryologist Robin Wall Kimmerer contemplatedbefore Olivia Laing wrote of before neurologist Oliver Sacks drew on forty years of medical practice to attest to — the fifty-six-year-old Alcott planted some peas, corn, cucumbers, and melons, then wrote in his journal:
Human life is a straightforward matter. Breath, bread, health, a hearthstone, a fountain, fruits, a few garden seeds and room to plant them in, a, a friend or two of either sex, conversation, neighbors, and a task life-long given from within — these are contentment and a grand estate. On these gifts follow all others, all grace dance attendance, beauties, beatitudes, mortals can desire and know. By mid-summer, Alcott had discovered in his garden not only a creaturely gladness but a portal into the most profound existential contentment — something akin to the creative intoxication that he, like all artists, found in his literary calling:
My garden has been my pleasure and a daily recreation since thefor planting… — Only persons of perennial genius attract or recreate as the plants, and of books, we may say the same, as of the magic of solitude. He falls in love with every plant one tends and gets glad for all his attention and pains. Books, persons even, are for the and the pen. Complement with Derek Jarman on , then revisit Whitman, writing while recovering from a paralytic stroke in nature’s nursery, on .