After two days of mild frustration, this morning felt wonderful. When we arrived at the women's garden, the man was there and ready for us. He was wearing black dress pants and no shirt, his skin stretched smooth over his round stomach. I introduced myself ("Ah, my second daughter's name is Jainabah. It is a good name.") and, at his request, took my seat behind a desk. He asked me to write my name in a small notebook, opening it to the proper page and pointing to show me where. "Heather Muszynski" was written at the top of the page, and I just about died. I knew that she had worked with a women's garden here, but seeing her name and writing mine under it is something completely different.

This is not the first time that I have had the unsettling feeling that someone lived my life before I did. And by "someone," I mean Heather.

We are going to ignore this for the time being.

I jotted down notes for more than an hour while he went over the history of the garden and some of the details about ownership, membership, etc. I didn't actually get to garden or work with women, but I'll be returning tomorrow morning. I'm feeling pretty good.