One of the first things I noticed in the oncology waiting room were two huge Christmas cactuses filled with blooms, even though it was late January.

I noticed families together. Husbands. Wives. Mothers. Daughters. I noticed women who had lost their hair and men in wheelchairs. The nurses and receptionists were cheerful and happy. I struggled to hold back tears and saw no one who looked the way I felt — as if the world were ending.

Yet somehow, amidst all this, those blooming cactuses drew my attention. They grounded me. Calmed me. Reassured me.

That was almost 6 years ago, the first of countless visits. Some when Matthias was very, very sick. Some when he was feeling good. None were as scary as the first. Today his cancer is gone and at his appointment over the summer, he was told he didn’t have to go back again.

Last week I asked you to tell me your favorite thing about gardening. So many of you focused on the healing nature of the garden. The peace it brings. The way it calms and slows our thoughts.

You relish the solace of the garden. How plants bring us joy, feed our bodies and nourish our souls.

I imagine whoever tends the plants in the oncology department feels the same way. I’m so grateful for that gift.

Reading through all your comments and emails brought me so much joy. It reminded me how grateful I am to have plants and gardens in my life. I imagine each of us coming to gardening in our own way. Some of us grew up in gardens. Some came to gardens later in life. As young mothers. As widows. With curiosity. With hope. Each of us is living a different story in a different place. We’re different ages, have different backgrounds, yet we’re all connected by a love for growing things.

Jess mentioned in one of the Roots and Refuge Farm videos how so many people she’s encountered are quick to discount themselves as “black thumbs”. I’ve heard it, too. And it makes me sad. I also, frequently, hear people claim they have no artistic talent, that they’re not creative. I said it myself not so long ago.

But we can learn to garden. And we can learn to make art. Both enrich our lives.

I often say how difficult winter can be for me. I live in Wisconsin where winters are long and cold. Where the gardening season is short. I miss my garden in the winter and the inspiration it brings for my art, but the truth is, I am not without a garden when there’s snow on the ground outside. My home is filled with plants. And like the plants in the oncology department, they ground me, calm me, bring me joy. They also inspire my creativity.

I’ve grown houseplants since I was a child. I vividly recall fantasizing about my future house, imagining filling it with plants and pets so it would be like I was living in a conservatory.

Sometimes it feels as if my path has meandered — and yes, my journey hasn’t been in a straight line — but when I look back I see I’ve been headed in the same direction all along.

I don’t do much holiday decorating, but I can never resist tucking another cheerful blooming plant into a place by a window. Some, like the annuals I grow outdoors, will be short-lived. I welcome them for the season, for the joy they’ll bring while they’re here.

Often they’ll show up in my paintings.

Lately I’ve been shifting my thinking. Reminding myself to be open to possibility. To different ways of being. Perhaps the story I’ve told myself about how difficult winters are isn’t as true as I’ve made it out to be. Maybe it doesn’t have to be true at all.

This is my last blog post of 2021. I’m taking a short break over the holidays and will return in the new year. I’ll leave you with one last gift before I sign off for the year. I made these for my Joy Letter Subscribers and want to share them with you, too:

I know it hasn’t been an easy year but one of the bright spots for me has been writing this blog and connecting with you here, week after week. Thank you for coming along for the ride.

Whether you’re celebrating or not, I hope you’ll find joy in the next few weeks. Make time for yourself. For creativity. For connecting with nature.

Until next year,