My garden is so abundant right now. I take an hour at the beginning and end of my day to putter around and look at everything, pull out this very beautiful creeping vine that chokes my Concord grapes (and anything else it can reach), snip away at excess leaves blocking my tomatoes, pluck a blueberry or, this year, handfuls of raspberries. Watering is in constant rotation from bed to bed. I do this while hurling a ball for my dog over the thick archway of honeysuckle. Bouquets are a living installation and in constant rotation, a couple throughout our home. I feel so much love and joy from taking care of my plants, the soil, the birds, and insects that benefit from it all.

I recently moved a pretty hefty beach plum tree to a new location. For the past few weeks, I’ve stood and given the roots a thorough soak. It bothered me that we hadn’t seen any fruit after the first year, when we had an abundance of grape-sized, plum-tasting fruits with tiny pits. The second year, the elderberry trees next to it shot up several feet and quickly covered the area in full-time shade. The tree is not doing well, but I’ll continue to water and hope for signs of life next year.

It’s all an experiment. The plants say so much when they are happy and thriving, and also when they are struggling. Give them some water and they pep right up. I move things around all the time, and nervously check on them day after day. Things blossom and give a jolt of ecstasy, where a mediocre clump of leaves can sprout this incredible single bolt of color. A whimsical, delicate bunch of flowers can actually last throughout the whole summer, dancing in the wind. Eventually the color fades, and the next thing comes up.

 

There are also the microclimates. I don’t have a large yard, but the various planting areas around the house all have very different lighting conditions. I’m exploring how to plan for cool and shade vs. hot, sunny, and dry, and that is also a question for all seasons. Right now, one bed is packed full of color, but in the winter, almost no shape remains. Meanwhile, at the back of the garden in the shade, there is an evergreen that gives structure, surrounded by dogwood with stems that turn an electric red.

This morning, when I came back inside, I hung the dog’s leash on a worn wooden hook and dropped my shoes into a basket. Soon, the garden will take less of my time, and I'll return my attention to indoor projects. There is always something to address in our 1890s home, and I think about all the owners before us and our shared efforts to care for this place.

This is maintenance, but it's also a relationship. Just as the garden needs watering, a home needs regular attention. That care is part of the design itself, and it deepens our connection to place, materials, our agency, curiosity, and our relationship to our environment.

The garden gives back far more than I put into it, and I think our homes can, too. With attention, they remain alive, shaped not only by the decisions made at the beginning, but by years of use and care.