I woke up with allergies in the night and again this morning. I should probably take a Benadryl, even though it makes me feel like a zombie—but I need my energy for the garden this weekend. The grass in the front and back yards is begging to be mowed, and there are plants that need attention. Maybe I’ll even find time to work on my paintings.
The squirrels are loud this morning, chattering and rustling through the trees. I hope they don’t leave a surprise on me again! The birds are noisy too, their songs mixing with the rustle of leaves and the soft hum of the wind. I love how slowing down makes me notice these details. I used to walk in Broad Ripple, moving quickly past everything, but for the last couple of years I’ve stayed in the park with Chewy. I see the trees’ bark textures, the way the light hits each branch, and even notice familiar faces. The park feels alive and intimate now, not just a path I pass through.
Gardening feels different this year, too. The recent limb trimming has opened the backyard, letting sunlight spill into areas that were once shaded. The patch by the gate now basks in morning sun, and I think I might finally grow something there. The creeping Charlie is still making its rounds, but I feel like I’m gaining the upper hand. I remember battling clover years ago—now it’s gone. Gardens come in waves; patience is key.
I picked up some baby onions at Walmart and plan to plant more whenever I move other plants around. I’m imagining a spring bulb bed: Dutch iris with deep violet petals, day lilies opening in soft gold, gladiolus in striking pinks and reds. Perhaps I’ll order some for myself and some for Dr. Cho. Later in the season, daffodils will trumpet cheerful yellow among the green, alliums will rise like little fireworks, and iris will add elegant purples and blues.
I can almost see the ultimate bulb garden: daffodils, alliums, Dutch iris, iris, gladiolus, and day lilies all blooming together in waves of color and texture. It’s ambitious, but I think I can make it happen. Gardening isn’t just work—it’s a way to watch life unfold slowly. Each sprout, bloom, and fallen leaf reminds me to notice, to nurture, and to find beauty in patience.
| Yesterday, I moved some daylilies from the front bed on the west side to the back. That front spot will be my seed patch in the spring—a whole big bunch of them. I’m tired of seeds not growing, so I’m rethinking my approach. This year I noticed that when I planted cosmos more densely, they came up beautifully—better than anything else I seeded. My hunch is that chipmunks, squirrels, and birds are feasting on my seeds, so the more I plant, the more survive. Next summer, I have a bold plan: I’m going to plant a giant 10-pound bag of sunflower seeds—the kind sold as bird food. I’ll also fill the beds with marigolds, calendula, cosmos, and a wildflower mix. All of these thrived for me this year, especially when planted in high density. My garden plan isn’t just about planting—it’s about vision. I problem-solve (plant more seeds so some survive the critters) and imagine abundance. |
| I also worked in Dr. Cho’s yard yesterday—the dentist’s office. I trimmed bushes and cut back plants extensively. Next time, I may plant some bulbs there. My strategy is to wait for a rainy stretch so the flowers can take root where weeds have been ruling. (See my rhyme? “Plant flowers where the weeds reign.”) It’s true, though—the best way to get rid of weeds is to crowd them out with better things |
Yesterday, I worked long hours with the soil, carving out a little stream of daylilies that now runs like a green ribbon away from the house, tracing the line of the hose. I’m proud of it—it feels like I shaped something alive, a small river of beauty that leads the eye outward. With the trees trimmed back, new possibilities have opened: light touches spots that had been shaded for years. Even the bare stretch by the fence, where Chewy once sprinted to the top and trampled everything, now calls out for planting again. It feels like a second chance for that part of the yard, and for me, too.
Of course, the tree crew left their mess—broken bulbs, tire tracks, a forgotten sweatshirt—and even tent worms that slipped past their work. I noticed them while sitting with Toni, sharing spinach curry and stories of our children’s transitions. The worms will be dealt with, just like the rest. I texted the head guy and claimed my authority: I am a master gardener. This garden has taught me persistence, to trust what I see with my own eyes.
Money is tighter now, and I tell myself no bulbs this year. And yet, how could I resist? The cleared space begs to be filled. Each season I’ve planted here, something of my past has surfaced—the Lindt chocolates Dora once sent, the birthdays, the griefs, the comfort of continuity. Even now, flowers bloom where memories ache, and I feel my mother’s birthday close, as though the soil itself remembers with me.
The garden holds all of this: the chatter of friends, the marks of workers, the small losses, the openings for something new. Today, Catherine and I will walk among flowers at the IMA, but I already feel the deepest walk is here—right outside my back door.
Peanut supervised, of course. He settled into his favorite shady spot, ears twitching at the birds, keeping me company while I dug and lifted. His calm presence makes the rhythm of gardening—dig, place, water—feel even steadier.
Yesterday was full: swimming, shopping, gardening, walking, writing, even making a few cards. Today I’m expecting supplies in the mail for card-making, and I’d like to carve out time for jewelry too. My paintings wait patiently, the colors in my head not yet on canvas. I know there’s time for it all, but this season the garden commands most of my attention. Its growth is immediate, and the weeds never rest, pulling me outside again and again.
Tomorrow evening, when the dentist’s office is closed, I’ll head back there with pruners in hand. Some plants will be cut back hard—stems reduced to stubs, leaves gathered in piles. It always feels ruthless in the moment, the sharp scent of green sap hanging in the air, but I know it clears the way for renewal. Gardening is full of these lessons: knowing when to nurture gently and when to cut boldly so something stronger, more beautiful, can grow in its place.
July 11 – Garden Journal Entry
Yesterday was a productive day in the garden. I’ve been getting everything ready for the garden party, and I finally tackled the pile of logs that had been lying around for too long. I pulled out the chainsaw (carefully!) and got to work cutting them down. Some were surprisingly thick, but I managed to get through it without hurting myself—though I can absolutely see how accidents happen. Next time, I’ll be more cautious.
The real joy came afterward: I used the logs and sticks to create a new flower bed. I piled them up, topped them with mulch, and planted some daylilies. It looks beautiful and wild and intentional—just the kind of texture I like in a garden. There’s something so satisfying about making something new with what you already have lying around.
The weather’s been cooperating lately. Warm, sunny, and just enough breeze to keep things comfortable. It’s the kind of weather that makes even Peanut stretch out in the backyard like he’s sunbathing on a California beach. He patrols the perimeter while I weed or plan the next project. It’s peaceful. These moments in the garden, just me and Peanut and the plants, feel like the real rhythm of my life.
There’s still plenty to do—pruning, a bit more mulching, and maybe some container rearranging before guests arrive—but it’s coming together. Slowly, stick by stick, bed by bed, bloom by bloom.
I’m really looking forward to having the trip behind me so I can sink back into this backyard routine again. After Michigan, it’ll be time to sit in the shade,
This is a Penstemon digitalis, also known as foxglove beardtongue, and I really need to find it a better spot in my garden. It's getting overshadowed by my other flowers right now. I’m thinking I’ll make the move when it’s going to rain. Since it will finish blooming soon, that’ll be a great time to shift things around. I’m planning to put it where the purple salvia are and put Black-eyed Susans where the Penstemon digitalis are. I want the Susans and the daylilies to be in the background since I have so many of both, and they tend to grow tall.
This Penstemon is a perennial that produces these tall spikes of tubular flowers in white to pale lavender. It blooms in late spring to early summer and attracts bees and hummingbirds, which I love for my garden.
I know that this plant thrives in full sun to partial shade, needing about six hours of sunlight each day. It prefers well-draining soil rich in organic matter, like sandy or loamy types. I make sure to water it regularly, but I let the soil dry out a bit between waterings. I also deadhead the spent flowers and trim it back in late fall. Using mulch helps keep moisture in and weeds out.
When it comes to companion plants for my Penstemon digitalis, I think about adding some Russian sage, which has a similar height and loves full sun, too. Lavender would be a great choice as well, not just for its beauty but also because it attracts pollinators. With these companions, I can improve my vibrant and diverse garden space!
Divide certain perennials in August after they have finished flowering. This can prevent overcrowding, improve airflow, encourage stronger b...
