April’s been here for a minute, and a tiny (okay, maybe a frantic) voice in my head is screaming that I’m behind on starting seeds. Like, a whole month-ish. I feel like the official time to have started was last month, and I was fully prepared to do so, but with the great outdoors waving its leafy arms in about six weeks, I’m just diving in now and hoping for the best. I’ve been expertly ignoring the garden situation this year under the guise of not having enough time to get to it.
Standing amidst the weedy graveyard of last year’s grand plans, something’s finally clicking. Last year was my big solo gardening debut, and spoiler alert: it was a spectacular flop. Turns out, consistently showing up for garden duty is way harder than I wanted to commit to, especially when the local wildlife – be it cutworms or that freakin’ groundhog – decided my veggies were an all-you-can-eat buffet. Frustration became normal. I was trying to force my old traditional garden, one that never really felt like mine. This version wasn’t my vision, that secret garden I’ve always dreamed of having.
I just didn’t care, and I straight-up noped out of that whole gardening nightmare around late July, leaving behind a tangled mess of hoses, a lonely sprinkler, abandoned tools, and the skeletal remains of plants being devoured by weeds. Honestly? No regrets. I can’t even blame the usual end-of-summer garden burnout; it was a solid, “Nope, not doing this anymore.” And so, I didn’t.
But now, as April sprinkles the landscape with hopeful little hints of green, a stubborn seed of determination has taken root in my soul. I’m reclaiming my creative space. Last year’s glorious failure taught me a thing or two, mostly that forcing a garden that I didn’t love on myself is a garden that I literally won’t tend to.
The old garden space has grand plans for rose covered arches, berry plants, and flowers eventually. I’ve allowed it to be overrun with weeds, broken pots, and assorted critters. The raised beds are on their last breath and the giant maple running it’s roots underneath everything makes the dirt unfriendly on the left side. I’ll have her filled up in no time with plants that needed to be transplanted anyway and find a few new friends to join in. The fence will no longer need a gate and in the long run, will be a much more pleasant space. It will probably be taken care of better once outfitted with plants that don’t need quite as much attention.
Instead, I’m preparing the spaces that I spend the most time in to become the garden. I want seats surrounded by tomatoes and jalapeno pepper plants. I want brightly colored pots alongside the fabric ones I bought to sit on a patio surrounded by flower and herb garden areas. I’m preparing for a glorious, possibly slightly chaotic, reign of some sort of Great Garden Redesign! Picture little pockets of plant happiness scattered everywhere, each a carefully curated collection. A vibrant, textured tapestry within easy reach. Sounds awesome.
I want a path. I want areas where I can just futz around, taking in the outside. I want to figure out how to make my water barrels awesome and functional… maybe even pretty.
It’s not all about practicality. This redesign is about pure, unadulterated plant joy. Little havens of plants chosen solely because they make my weird little heart sing. That fuzzy, unpronounceable succulent? In. Those cartoonishly bright zinnias? Absolutely. And yes. I know they’re not native plants. I’ll have those too. No more adhering to the set of made up rules I’ve been following.” This is about a space that reflects me, in all my plant-obsessed glory.
Will it happen overnight? Nope. I have all spring and summer to get this started. A base to grow off of. But the end goal? A garden that’s an extension of my living space, beautiful, convenient, and, most importantly, a source of personal joy. And hey, the tomatoes and parsley will be a short walk away. Small victories, my friends, small, delicious victories.
Alright, time to gamble with these seeds. I’ve got a month and a half before they need to be outside, so there should still be plenty of time. It’s exciting to just stop and start over, but this time in a manner that takes the stress out of having a garden and allows it to all be a peaceful space.
You know, I should probably reread “The Secret Garden“. Gotta remember exactly what sparked this whole “I need a secret garden” thing in the first place. Maybe then gardening will feel less like more work and more like… magic.