Hope, Patience, Joy: Lessons from the Garden for Art and Life

My peach and cherry trees are filled with flowers. Daffodils are blooming and everywhere I look outside, spring is progressing.

I’ve harvested the first asparagus and cut the first fresh herbs and green onions of the season.

In the basement under grow lights, I’m tending tiny seedlings (and hoping they’ll be big enough when it’s time to take them outside).

Spring is a time of hope, of renewed energy and excitement.

Right now, I’m leaning hard into those feelings. I’m savoring each discovery, making sure I don’t miss even the tiniest glimmer beauty.

So much is fleeting at this time of year. If I’m not paying attention, I’ll have to wait another year before I can savor the unique gifts of the season.

Making a point of noticing beauty is one of the lessons my garden teaches me over and over and over again.

Gardens are good teachers. They have so many lessons to share with us.

My aunt came for a visit this week and she brought me a giant philodendron that had gotten too big for her house. Since then, I’ve been shuffling my houseplants, arranging and rearranging. And remembering how much I love my indoor garden, even as I’m shifting my attention outside.

One of the plants in my indoor garden is a Streptocarpus my mom gave me last fall. Right now it’s filled with flowers.

Before these flowers showed up, I was convinced I couldn’t grow Streptocarpus. My mom has a beautiful collection of them and a few years ago I killed one she gave me. This plant was hanging in there, green all winter long. I was hopeful. And then I saw the first buds.

One failure doesn’t mean I need to give up entirely. I’m glad I was open to possibility and tried again. Excited by this small success, I wondered if maybe I had room for a few more Streptocarpus on my windowsills (the answer was yes).

I used to say I couldn’t grow iris, but last year an iris I’d been gifted by one of my students proved me wrong.

What sorts of stories do we tell ourselves? How many of them are true?

I catch myself these days when I start making a negative statement. I try not to limit myself with negative thinking.

After all, I used to say I wasn’t an artist.

My iris and Streptocarpus remind me to be open to possibilities.

Over the last couple of months, I’ve been taking a class. I’m learning a lot and allowing myself to follow inspiration where it leads (even when it’s in unexpected directions). But as exciting and energizing as this class has been, it’s also been hard. Being a beginner is uncomfortable. Learning something new requires patience.

I’m constantly learning and relearning patience. The garden teaches this, too.

Planting a seed takes patience. I don’t expect a seed to become a mature plant overnight. Why do I expect my own growth to be so much faster?

I planted my apple trees in 2019 and have yet to see a single apple (this spring I do see some buds…).

My mom’s Clivia plants are blooming right now. It’s been 18 years since she’s seen any flowers on them.

Yes, the garden is a good teacher of patience.

I have quite a few projects in the works and I know most of them will take some time. Garden, life, art — good things take time.

I didn’t choose a word for this year, but instead have been writing words and phrases on a large piece of paper taped to my studio door. Words of encouragement and intention. Words of inspiration and imperative. A phrase that showed up recently is “Rich exploration.”

Oh yes, that feels right for this time in my creative life. I’m learning new things. I’m trying new things. I’m digging deep into what inspires me and pondering where I want to go next.

And I’m taking my time.

The practice of slowing down goes hand in hand with patience.

So often I find myself rushing, being pulled along by the fast pace of our society. I don’t want to live like that. I want to live a slow and intentional life. I want to savor my days.

For a long time, I had been feeling stuck. And to be honest, in some parts of my life, I still feel stuck. But I also know that like a plant that’s still growing, I’m soaking up energy until it’s time to bloom.

Running a business is hard. Running a business while making art and learning new things is very hard. Sometimes I make mistakes. Sometimes what I try doesn’t work.

It happens in the garden, too. A seed doesn’t sprout. A plant dies. I’m constantly moving plants around. Rethinking what I grow and how I grow it.

Mistakes aren’t the end of the story. Each gardening season gives me the chance to start again.

So many lessons from the garden translate to art-making.

I adore sketchbooks, but one aspect of a sketchbook practice is that many pages don’t turn out how I’d like them to. Sometimes a page is about figuring something out. Figuring things out is messy. And it takes time.

I told you about the book I’m writing. As practice for designing and publishing a book, I created a guided journal and brought it into the world in 2022.

the first edition of Joy Collecting

Maybe you remember it. Maybe you even bought it (if you did, thank you!).

I had problems from the very beginning of the project but I kept trying to make it work. Then last fall a batch I ordered arrived damaged in shipping. Some also had a strange printing error. Enough was enough.

The company I was using wasn’t the right fit for my project; my books were like a flower planted in the wrong place.

I sold the last good copies and let the journals go out of print. I wasn’t sure what to do next. Was this dream even feasible? Should I just let it go?

I did some research and spent a lot of time thinking.

Then I dove in.

After a bit of reformatting, I had test copies printed.

the new edition of Joy Collecting

The new books are lovely. With heavier paper, higher quality printing.

the new edition (right) is thicker, even with fewer pages

Preorders are now open and I’m delighted to share this new edition with the world.

I’m glad I didn’t give up.

The idea of collecting joy is a lesson I learned from the garden, too.

It’s all about paying attention.

When I look for joy, I find it.

did you notice it?

Tiny glimmers of beauty. Little sparks of magic. When I’m paying attention I can’t miss them. They’re everywhere.

I wrote myself a note near the beginning of the year: “reclaim wonder.”

This is how I want to live my life. Open to wonder. Open to possibilities. I want to slow down and take my time with rich exploration. I know I’ll make mistakes. I know some things I try will fail. I know many of my ideas will take a long time to grow. But I’ll keep going.

I hope you will, too.