How I Learned to Be an Imperfect Gardener

I remember the day gardening changed for me. Second year with my new landscape — the first large garden I'd created from scratch. Making rounds along the path, admiring what was still mostly wood mulch with a few green things sticking up. A glimmer of yellow caught my eye. Kneeling down, I saw fat caterpillars moving carefully across thin stems, hanging like monkeys to get the last bit of leaf. My first inclination: pick them off or find spray — that's how I was raised.

But if I hadn't sat another 20 minutes watching — even listening to them eat — I'd have become a very different gardener. Research revealed a colony of monarch larvae on swamp milkweed. Since then I've learned making a garden is a gift of letting go and giving nature a chance to teach what works and what doesn't.

2008: Gardening 101

A garden, by nature, changes and evolves. Sometimes we work too hard to keep it static — like a painting with every plant in the same place, same size, same blooms yearly. Impossible. If we learn to let go and embrace changes, we've made the first step toward gardening that constantly surprises and grips us deeper.

Here's my garden in July 2008. It's ugly. I had no idea what I was doing. Trusted plant tags but discovered they were often wrong. But I had faith in the vision — monarchs showed I was on the right path (pun intended) even if I didn't know it yet.

Just Go For It

Plant with diversity of species, heights, forms, colors, textures. My garden had a few woody plants — dogwood shrub, river birch. Both died. This happens; doesn't mean failure.

Embrace Mistakes

Get back up. Got a replacement birch growing ~4 feet yearly, harboring house wrens. Larger lesson: plant shrubs and trees first; they anchor the landscape as bones for sinew (pathways) and muscle (flowers and grasses).

2009: Money Issues

Confession: in one day I spent $1,000 at a local nursery. Loaded 2–3 carts with biggest pots. Foolhardy, but wanted a garden ASAP, unwilling to wait on seeds. Mistake. Larger plants didn't grow faster than seedlings sprouting on their own over years.

Once bought a "Charlie Brown tree" for $5 on fall clearance — scraggly, sickly, dying on hot pavement. Four years later it's as tall as the same species from a 20-gallon container. Save money, water, transplant stress. Buy smaller pots. Grow from seed.

2010: Missing Elements

Third full year garden took off. Summer 2010 image — rich with texture, bloom colors, sizes. But I only saw what was missing: different foliage colors, shrubs. Added viburnums, serviceberries, elderberry, ninebark.

Frustrating — I was gardening backward, so focused on flowers I forgot what gives them meaning, punch, definition, seasonal interest. What makes a garden surprising and memorable is diversity — translating to far more interesting, wildlife-friendly fall and winter gardens.

2011: Plant Trust and Research

Packed plants tightly. Benefit: few weeds (shaded out), regulated soil temperature (less irrigation). But ignored research on mature sizes — plants that should thrive died out.

This image shows ignoring horticultural info, though I enjoy being touched by plants: mountain mint's fragrance stuck to arms all day, startling butterflies from flowering perches. Physical closeness made me psychologically closer. I see, hear, taste more. Learn more from insect discoveries and tabs on what's working, declining, self-sowing. Exhilarating!

By 2011 the garden outgrew intentions — art becoming artifice, plants showing minds of their own. First I edited — trimmed, divided, transplanted — but became too much work for too little impact. Sat on deck listening to birds, tracing bee zigzags, finally conceded to nature's nature.

Since 2011 I've let the garden seed where it wants, except pathways. When a dependable plant doesn't return, I no longer mourn but celebrate what comes up as delightful discovery. Plants move, find where they best want to be — what I started is more like a child growing up than a shelf sculpture. It's alive!

Sometimes I think I've been lucky. Mother never had success with me around, so I knew nothing starting. But I love reading and researching. Before digging in a plant, I consult a dozen sources on preferred conditions and place accordingly. Key: don't trust plant tags. Research online, buy native plants accustomed to your soil and climate from your locale. Saves a world of hurt.

2012: The Big Switch to Natives

Late July 2012. Massive drought — <1 inch rain over nearly three months June–September. Hadn't watered — usually once yearly, but did three times late summer and fall to help overwinter.

In drought's wake (and dearth of wildlife), began replacing nonnatives with natives — for greater wildlife draw and lower maintenance when properly sited (also mitigating chemical sprays and fertilizers). How does my drought-stricken garden look?

Accept Nature's Editing

Every year the garden differs. One plant thrives, another waffles. Genista moth larvae decimate Baptisia, Liatris lean wrong way. Birch shades out asters, Joe Pye Weed mysteriously dies back. It's OK. I've let go to garden on a different level and learn from evolution of what I've birthed. Even let things start growing in bordering lawn to see what happens — never would've done that five years ago.

When planning, consider foundation plants like shrubs and trees. Place for privacy but also to surprise visitors at every turn — middle of borders, path turns. Use adaptable native plants, research exact conditions for thriving with benign neglect.

Then keep from editing too much — see what the garden teaches, what each plant, bird, insect shares about nature. Be patient. Let go. Learn to garden on a deeper level.