Field Notes From the Garden
The garden sits upstream of the studio
There were years I killed every plant that came into the home. I say this because in the larger scope, I see the success I’m having these days, and it’s a reminder of what’s possible.
The hyacinth I planted last fall recently filled my home and studio with their intoxicating sweetness. Daffodils by the hundreds stood golden in jars throughout both spaces. This was my first year growing Narcissus flowers. I planted the bulbs last Fall with the intention of painting them into my Becoming Eros series.
Tubers and seeds that I started playing with nearly two months ago now sit at over 300 plants ready to go into the ground.
As I look down at the dirt that won’t scrub out under my fingernails from all the moving of dirt this last week, I feel something I can only describe as profound joy. I won’t say happiness because it’s something deeper. Satisfaction. Wonder. Alchemy. It’s the kind of feeling that makes you want to cry and laugh simultaneously.
I didn’t do anything extraordinary. I planted bulbs last October. I planted seeds in March. I watered things and showed up.
1. Dahlia seed emerging
2. Filling small cells, about to move into 4” pots
3. Moved and settling in to 4” pots
4. Small tubers waking up in 4” pots
On the same day I planted the now thriving dahlia seeds, I also planted 36 cells of fern. I wanted these to take. They’re the same breed I grew up with.
I followed the fern directions to a T: temperature, humidity, light, everything precisely as specified. Not only had I read the directions, I’d done additional research. None of it took. Only sprouts of mold.
The dahlias? I’d read the directions before planting. These were expensive, specialty seeds with cumbersome, complicated instructions. But I already had my supplies: small trays filled with small cells that I’d used with success in years past. The directions warned against this method. As I planted, I remember thinking, “Why can’t I just follow the directions?” I was frustrated with myself. But then something shifted: “I do have some experience here. Can I trust that I’m doing what works best for me?”
1. Coffee and pajamas on a Sunday afternoon is a rarity.
2. New peony shrub (Planted last summer) producing it’s first blooms.
3. Half of these tubers have not sprouted yet. Some of them are duds but I’m giving them a final push before I take what’s sprouted and put in ground later this week.
4. Pinching tops of what started as seed March 20.
I didn’t work in the garden yesterday. I rested in it. I enjoyed it. I, a Mother myself, sat with Mother Nature on Mother’s Day and felt solidarity. I felt Mothered and Mothering.
Our world is obsessed with transformation. I often share dramatic transformations through photography and video on social media: seed to wall, ground to gallery. But dramatic before-and-afters, along with seemingly overnight success, signal revolutionary change and that can be misleading.
As a creative, so much of my work exists in the realm of the invisible. Ideas are under constant development, skills are slowly sharpening, and there are hundreds of failed attempts no one sees.
This year’s seeds served me the physical proof that unseen work matters. It’s validation for every invisible hour of practice, every quiet morning of showing up when nothing looks different yet. And those moldy fern cells? They’re proof too. Failure is part of the process. Following directions doesn’t guarantee success and sometimes you have to experiment and trust what you know.
Not every day feels meaningful. Some days it’s just pushing seeds into soil or remembering to water. Some days you follow directions perfectly and get mold instead of ferns. But somewhere down the line, maybe when you’re not even watching for it, your whole house fills with the fragrance of what you planted in faith and what you planted in defiance of the rules that didn’t serve you.
Home grown peonies pulling their weight in my work.