There is a secret garden in a small village on an island in Estonia. The blacksmith of the village started it when his son and wife died during childbirth. The year was 1925. The trees that the blacksmith planted to relieve his grief came from far away places, and were meant to bring no other benefit than a beauty to enjoy. The garden was his life’s work. Somewhat of a tourist attraction many years ago, there are not many visitors these days. Only local village children sometimes come to play in the shade of trees to escape summer heat.

I have been visiting this garden every summer for 10 years and have wanted to tell this story, but was not able to find an angle.

One dark November day I went to visit a young didjeridu maker on the island, and it turned out that he lives in a house right next to my secret garden. We sat in his kitchen and drank chaga tea in silence. The cat was napping on the stove. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to make a story of his work, but before saying goodbye I decided to tell him about my dream to make a story about the garden. He looked at me and quietly said ‘I have a dream as well’. This is how it started.

to be continued…