(excerpted from a newsletter sent 10/30/23, about a class by the same name)

If you know me, you know that my garden has been an important part of my life these past few years. I had never really gardened before we moved back to Wisconsin, but I had dreamed of growing plants for much of my adult life. The woman we bought our house from (who has since passed away) was an avid gardener and well known around here for her green thumb and famous blueberry bushes. She and her husband lived here for the last 30 years of their lives, growing old together and several large plots of vegetables, flowers, and herbs.

By the time we took over, the garden beds were quite overrun by grasses. There were still remnants of their former glory (a patchy raspberry patch, the most stunning peonies, an enormous rhubarb plant, garlic chives and oregano growing like weeds…), but the last few summers have been a process of saving what I can and clearing the rest. So far I've reclaimed about one third of the former beds and planted about half of that with perennial medicinal herbs and native wildflowers, and the other half a combination of vegetables, annual herbs, and cut flowers. By no means do I know what I’m doing, but it’s been rewarding to witness the space grow into (messy, colorful) fullness once again.

Garden tending (and the off-season dreaming + planning) has now become a foundational part of my seasonal rhythms. Throughout the year, my garden is an important anchor, holding me in place and tying me to the land I live on. It provides year-round structure and routine, and is the source of a profound sense of both accomplishment and satisfaction. Not to mention the material nourishment it provides.

But beyond that, I’ve come to consider gardening a form of creative collaboration with plants and place. My garden is practical, yes, but it's also a living art installation, a site specific piece exploring the themes of beauty and sustenance, aliveness and reciprocity. It is the place in my life where hard work, sensuality, delight, and nonhuman relationship dance together.

And I'm not of the mind that gardening alone will solve the world's problems, but I absolutely do believe that if we have the ability to make whatever little patch of earth we have access to more beautiful, more welcoming to other animals, and more ecologically diverse, then we're doing something very important. For me, a garden is a place where hope is practiced. Because to garden, you have to believe in life—you have to believe that despite whatever comes your way, life will flourish. That life itself is abundant and generous. At a time of great ecological devastation and loss, gardening is an act of radical faith. It's an offering to the world you long for.

*The phrase "every seed is a longing" comes from Kahlil Gibran's poem Sand and Foam.