The Garden in Progress
When my spouse deployed in 2023 for a year, the front yard felt too quiet—like it was holding its breath. So I decided it needed a project, a purpose, a little magic. I tore out the thirsty lawn and replaced it with the beginnings of a native pollinator garden: cedar rails for bones, rocks for warmth, stumps and dead logs for shelter, and a soft blanket of mulch to tuck everything in.
It didn’t look like much at first. Honestly, it looked like a construction site with aspirations. But I knew the rule: the first year they sleep. And in 2024, oh boy, did they ever nap. The garden spent that whole season looking like it was thinking about doing something… eventually.
But I kept tending it—watering, weeding, whispering encouragement. And I added one of my favourite tricks: Woodland strawberries as green mulch. They spread fast, stayed low, smothered weeds, and stitched the whole garden together with tiny emerald stars. By late spring, they were tossing out berries like confetti. The birds threw a party. I wasn’t invited, but I didn’t mind. I created the garden for them. They lost their home with the development, so I was trying to bring some of that back for them.
Then came 2025—the year they creep. Shoots stretched a little farther. Roots dug a little deeper. The strawberries marched outward like a cheerful groundcover army (that needs to be managed! Not gonna lie!) The pollinators started showing up in small but meaningful numbers: a bumblebee here, a skipper there, a monarch doing a slow fly‑by like it was inspecting the renovations.
And now? 2026—the year they leap.
The garden has exploded into exactly what I hoped for during those quiet nights in 2023. Golden alexanders glowing like lanterns. Bee balm throwing wild pink fireworks. Milkweed standing proud. The Virginia Creeper creeping over the rails. Strawberries weaving everything together in a lush, living carpet. The birds still feast every morning, gossiping loudly in the cedar rails like they own the place.
It’s not just a garden anymore. It’s a home. A habitat. A tiny ecosystem that grew alongside me while I waited for my spouse to come home. A reminder that even when life feels dormant, something is quietly rooting, preparing, gathering strength.
This year, it leapt.
And honestly? So did I.
