🌿 Letting the Garden Be Messy (and Me Too)

My garden is a mess right now.

Wild overgrown plants with flowers surrounding a weathered

The kind of mess that would make some people twitch or reach for a pruner. But for me, it’s more complicated than that.

It’s a living poem, yes, but also a mirror. A mirror for my perfectionism, my paralysis, the parts of me that want to fix and control, and the parts that just want to rest and observe.

Some days I see a wild, breathing conversation with the land. Other days I see failure and delay. Most days, it’s both. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe to hold all of it without turning away is the real invitation. Poison ivy sneaks through the edges. Wisteria keeps finding new ways to crawl in. The paths aren’t neatly lined. The porch paint has been chipping since last fall.

Sometimes I look at it and think, not enough, not enough, not enough. Should, should, should. Must, must, must.

I feel the urge to fix, to control, to prune it all back into something worthy of being seen.

But then I remember: it’s only year two here.
I moved onto this land and let myself observe it for a year first. I watched what grew, what showed up on its own, and what needed tending.

And then I stumbled onto the largest herb festival in America. I came home with carloads of medicinal and native plants, arms and heart overflowing. I was still mourning my last garden, the worst heartbreak of all, and suddenly, there they were. The clary sage I missed. The borage. Nettles.

I’ve lost plants to deer, to the neighbor’s goats, to drought, and sometimes to my own forgetfulness. The hostas stand partially nibbled, the peonies are gone, devoured completely. And yet, the asparagus patch remains untouched, thriving quietly, a small and unexpected miracle.

It reminds me that expectations so often invite disappointment. When I let go of what “should” happen, I make space for surprises. There are losses, yes, but also quiet gifts I could not have planned for.

🌼 The Mess as Teacher

I can’t afford the fencing I want, right now. I can’t keep up with every vine. I’m facing chronic health mysteries, possible autoimmune shifts, and deep fatigue that I didn’t choose.

I often leave my property to take a walk and catch myself looking up to avoid seeing wisteria creeping higher each week. It’s my way of coping. I remind myself, I can’t do it all.

I dream of chosen family, a circle of hands to help tend each other’s gardens, to share the weight. We’d mulch, prune, harvest, can, and celebrate. The work would end in music, dancing and laughter.

Because none of us are meant to do this alone. The myth of hyper-independence is making us sick. Our gardens too.

Even as a garden coach, I believe the most beautiful spaces are the ones that feel alive, not just “finished.”

The untouched, fence-less asparagus, a quiet green miracle. Unexpected resilience

We’ve all seen the opposite: too dry, compacted immature —dead— soil in an abandoned lot between two businesses, or a construction site stripped to dust before anything begins. Land that feels hollow, forgotten, lifeless.

That isn’t just a “mess,” that’s a loss of relationship. It’s the difference between wildness and neglect, between life unfolding and life being erased.

🌳 Wild Lessons

Letting the garden be messy has revealed unexpected gifts.
Daisies and irises sprang up where I thought there was only bare land. Poison ivy grows, but so does jewelweed, its gentle antidote nearby.

Nature whispers, just sit. Breathe. Leave your phone and shoes inside. Watch and be. The garden reminds me that not every tree stands straight, and no one judges the redwoods for it. Yet we judge ourselves and each other constantly.

I’ve judged my own body, my own path. I’ve judged others too. But even the dandelion I used to curse, I now greet with gratitude ~ as much as I like to imagine the bee on it does too.

🌺 The Parallel Mess

My life is just as tangled.
Long-term relationships withering, neglected gardens of its own. Like a plant that needs steady tending, relationships need daily observation and care.

Sometimes damage can spark new growth. Other times it marks the end. Unlike plants, we get to choose whether we grow or shrink from hurt.

🛠 Imperfect, Alive

My ADHD means I forget trowels in the soil and leave tools out in the rain. I forget to pay taxes. My house is messy. But when I help others, I show up like a pro.

It’s so much easier to have compassion for someone else apologizing for being messy, clumsy or overwhelmed. Turning that same kindness inward takes practice.

I saw a sickly deer recently. Part of me wanted to intervene. But it moved freely, still foraging with determination. It reminded me to focus on what I can do, not what I lack.

Despite my health struggles, I can still walk, eat, laugh. I can still tend. I can still create.

And for that, I am grateful.

💬 Your Turn

Where in your life are you being called to let things be messy?

What would happen if you didn’t try to fix or hide it right away?

What unexpected blooms might appear if you just watched and waited?

Delicate vetch in bloom, welcoming a tiny visitor.