Celebrating My Garden as a Temple of Female Sexuality

I kneel and pray and become a more complete woman in this sacred space

Yesterday morning, I was squatting next to my raspberry bush and eating the most tender berries straight from the vine, bringing them to my mouth with my dirty fingers. I’ve had these bushes for two years now and typically get a harvest of about 10 berries.

This year, after moving one of them to see if it would like a new location better, the relocated bush has been exploding with berries — even now, into October, when we’re getting gentle freezes at night.

I’ve probably gotten about 100 berries this year, but I can’t be sure. They never make it into the house. I always start out with good intentions, placing the berries into the basket I use for harvesting, but three berries in, I realize I need to taste one.

They are so soft, so pliable. They stain my fingers, a reddish juice wetting the dirt that has dried on my skin. And they are warm from the sun, even on an October morning.

So on that beautiful morning yesterday, I let my weight fully drop down into the squat, my pelvis dangling between my ankles, and I placed one of the berries into my mouth. It was sublime.

I combed through the vines with my ungloved fingers, looking for more, absolutely intoxicated with the sweetness of those berries. I didn’t even notice the thorns. I just wanted more.

I picked the last ripe berry and ate it. Then I ate the few that I had put in my basket.

Then I sat there, still in my squat, and looked around.

The garden is resplendent, even now in mid-October. There are a few red leaves on the ground. My wildflowers, chamomile, borage, calendula, and petunias are still blooming. There are tomatoes here and there, struggling to ripen in this cold. (I’ll give them a few more days and then pick them — even the green ones will ripen indoors.)

Nearby, a solitary bee landed on the purple-blue borage, making its way across the delicate petals. It was the only bee in the garden. I thought of her tireless efforts to do her job and keep her hive going, even now, as most of the other pollinators are preparing for the winter, not venturing out as often.

I felt a little tipsy then, as I often do in my garden. This is one of the sexiest places I know.

I think our culture generally associates nature and agricultural goddesses, like Ceres or Gaia, with maternal qualities. The earth and these goddesses produce life and abundance, and are therefore seen as nurturing, sacred energies.

We give sexual energy and mastery to other goddesses like Aphrodite — because patriarchal tradition has forced us to compartmentalize women. Mother or Lover. We aren’t allowed to be both.

When I’m in my garden, I know how pointless this is, the way we try to separate these two feminine aspects. My garden is a mother, yes, but she is also the possessor of some of the most potent sexual energy I’ve ever witnessed.

She is seductive. She is strong. She is insistent. She is wanton.

She beckons to me every single morning when I pass by on my walk. “Come inside,” she whispers, as the early morning sun filters through the translucent leaves of the lettuce, paints points of light on the beads of water clinging to those raspberries…

She is mother and lover, just like all women are. She perfectly embodies both.

I think of the hours and hours that I spend in that space, on my knees, or squatting, in deference to her, in worship of her, as I weed and plant and tend.

All of this, I hope, is not just my way of honoring the feminine energy that created me and that animates and inspires me every day, but also my way of honoring myself as a whole and complete woman.

This is my way of remembering that I am not just here to nurture and pour out abundance, but to open myself to the curious bees who need to stumble upon my petals, to the hungry mouths of those who want to taste my sun-warmed sweetness and stain their fingers with my juices.

© Yael Wolfe 2020

More on gardens and nature and the beauty of the world: