Diary of a Gardener What The Garden Teaches You

I’ve lived in my current home for 8.5 years. When I moved in, the landscaping was uninspired and tired—just a patch of green with no charm. The hedges in front of the house, likely 30 years old, were in terrible shape. The side yard was an overgrown tangle of ferns and Century plant, with nothing but trees to break up the monotony. Over these years, my garden has taught me so much. Most importantly, it has shown me how to find beauty even when it’s not immediately visible—and how to create a life worth living, one I never feel the need to escape from.

This garden has taught me patience. It has also taught me persistence, and above all, the value of learning. While I’ve deepened my knowledge through study, I’ve also learned to listen to the garden itself—to its wants and needs. I’ve nurtured this sandy soil, expanded planting spaces, and discovered a simple rule: if I killed a plant three times, it was time to call it quits. We broke up.

Through gardening, I’ve learned to embrace and love my true self—all of my quirks, eccentricities, compassion, and sass. I’ve let go of caring what others think, whether about me or my garden. I’ve also come to accept mistakes—because gardens are full of them. Some turn into happy accidents, as Bob Ross would say, while others leave me dealing with a plant I’ll never quite get rid of.

I’ve also felt a deeper connection to my ancestors, who poured their hearts into the land they worked. Their hands, stained black from soil and tobacco, toiled for survival. Unlike me, they had no internet for guidance. While I garden for pleasure, I carry a reverence for their legacy, feeling their resilience in every handful of soil.

Gardening gives me a blank canvas—a chance to create something from nothing, letting my eye roam from one section to another. The more I work on my garden, the more I work on myself, drawing closer to both Mother Earth and my authentic nature.

And about that garden—it’s always giving. Rarely does it take from me. I often ask it, “Is there room for just one more plant?” With a shovel in one hand and a plant in the other, I pace the yard, searching for a free spot, only to realize I’ve made this walk countless times before. But surely, I think, there’s space for just one more. And somehow, I always find a way.