How an Impulsive Nursery Trip Turned Into a Ritual of Release

Another day, another impulsive garden decision.

What started as a quick trip to Reems Creek Nursery turned into a full-blown excavation project, complete with surprise asparagus, brake trouble, and a ritual that grounded me more than expected.

This became a sacred pause. A bed I didn’t plan for that ended up holding more than just food. It held grief, patience, and clarity.

Sometimes the chaos is the clearing.

I didn’t mean to make a garden bed. I meant to buy a couple of asparagus crowns and leave with a sense of seasonal satisfaction. Instead, I walked out of Reems Creek Nursery with twenty. No plan. No soil. Just a trunk full of possibility and overwhelm. What came next wasn’t just a planting project. It was a clearing. A reclamation. Of land, yes, but also of rhythm, patience, and trust in the process even when it felt messy and slow.

🌱 The Surprise

I didn’t mean to make a garden bed.

I meant to buy a couple of asparagus crowns and leave with a sense of seasonal satisfaction. Instead, I walked out with twenty. No plan. No soil. Just a trunk full of possibility and overwhelm.

Another recent ADHD adventure took place at Reems Creek Nursery, one of my personal candy stores. I spotted two buckets of asparagus crowns and impulsively grabbed two varieties: Giant Jersey and Mary Washington. “These will pair perfectly with strawberries,” I thought.

I checked out thinking I’d purchased two crowns. Later, I realized each rubber-banded bundle held ten. I had accidentally bought twenty asparagus crowns.

🧠 The Spiral (and the Scramble)

Panic set in at first, but it nudged me into motion. I needed compost—and a lot of it. After a flurry of phone calls, brake troubles with a trailer rental, and more chaos than expected, I eventually found what I needed.

I cleared out an overgrown bed full of daffodils, English ivy, and deeply rooted grasses. I leveled the soil, laid down cardboard, and punched planting holes 12 to 18 inches apart. I’ll be writing more about that soon (including how I sourced compost in bulk), so check back or sign up for the newsletter to be the first to know.

🌿 The Ritual

I mixed biochar with fish fertilizer, stirred counterclockwise to release what I was holding, then clockwise to call in what’s next. I planted each crown with care, adding intention alongside compost.

Strawberries will fill the spaces between the asparagus rows. I’ll companion plant with lovage and borage to create a thriving little guild. Temporary fencing is still pending, but while I wait, I’m turning my attention to the sunny patio outside my studio. 📸 Heres a quick glimpse into the process—ritual, mess, and all:

A forgotten bed, tangled in ivy and daffodils. I didn’t plan to clear it—but it was waiting for me anyway.

After hours of pulling roots I didn’t plant, the soil begins to breathe again. Clearing ground, inside and out.

Dirt that will become rich nutrient soil!

A base layer of protection and release. Cardboard to smother the old, compost to feed the new.

Spacing out a future I can't yet see. Trusting that something slow and deep will grow here.

Three portals into patience. Each hole a soft promise to stay.

It doesn’t look like much. But this tangle of roots will become food, ritual, and something worth waiting for.

Cradled in compost and possibility. Each crown rests on its own little hill, nestled with care.

Layered in mulch, scattered with intention.

The first sprout. Proof that slow roots know what they’re doing—even when you forget your timeline.

💭 The Unexpected Clearing

I thought I was just preparing a bed. But what I ended up doing was peeling back ivy and grief. Clearing tangled roots I didn’t plant. Making room for something slow, something that would take years to establish but asked me to believe in its future anyway.

Asparagus is slow food. It takes time to settle in, to grow deep, to feed you back. This bed became a physical prayer, layered with cardboard, compost, biochar, and intention.

There’s no fence yet to protect from hungry mammals. No perfect layout. No guarantees.

But there’s something sacred about showing up anyway—with a shovel, a cracked bucket, and the guts to dig a bed before knowing exactly what you’re building.

It’s not my most aesthetic planting—but it’s real. And it’s changeable. I look forward to adding strawberries (like I mentioned here), plus other perennial herbs and companions to build a full guild over time.

*Curious about building a guild in your own space? I’ll be sharing more on that soon.*

If you’re dreaming up a garden that grows with you—and want guidance in figuring out where to begin—you can learn more about coaching here.

What are you preparing for, even if you don’t see the harvest yet?

Where are you clearing space before knowing what will grow?

✨ Want more?

I’m sharing a full guide to lasagna mulching for chaotic garden minds soon—with sourcing tips, ADHD-friendly layering logic, and my favorite hacks for building a bed with intention (even when you don’t feel ready).

👉 Read the full guide and get the free printable here. 🌱

Want it delivered to your inbox instead? Sign up for The Grove newsletter after the video below and I’ll send it your way the moment it’s live.

🪴 Curious what it actually looked like in motion?

Here’s a peek at the not-so-glamorous but real process of clearing, layering, and planting this bed:

🎥 Watch the Process

Clearing ivy, layering cardboard, hauling compost... it wasn’t pretty, but it was sacred.