English Emma Blooms

 This morning, I am bundled up in my sweatshirt, fluffy pants, and socks, sitting outside with Peanut while the garden greets me. The air is cool, the kind of crispness that reminds me fall is beginning to whisper at the edges.

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.

Lots of mushrooms.  Eric said I should make a milkshake of them and pour them on my wood piles to break them down.  How do I make a mushroom milkshake?

Gardening has always been more than a hobby for me—it is a mirror for my inner life. Each branch I trim, each flower I tend, and every seed I plant reflects the care I am learning to give myself. In the garden, chaos can be transformed into order, neglect into growth, and even the damage from storms or missteps can become an opportunity for renewal.

Yesterday morning, a crew came to trim my trees, and with their saws and ladders and giant heavy tools, they changed the shape of my garden. The main task was to remove the tent worms, but while they were here, other branches came down too. The result is a space that feels brighter, more open, and somehow unfamiliar. It takes time to adjust to a garden after it has been altered—light falls differently, shadows shift, and the air seems to move more freely.

But change in the garden rarely comes without cost. The men left tire tracks carved into the lawn, smashed a few outdoor lights, and trampled across flowers that had been quietly thriving. What they opened up with their hands, they also damaged with their boots. This morning, I walk through the yard taking stock—bulbs shattered, blossoms bent, soil pressed hard where it should have been soft.

And yet, this is gardening. It is never only about planting; it is also about repair. A storm, a careless step, an eager crew—each leaves its mark. The gardener’s work is to meet that disruption with patience, to put things right again, to coax beauty back from the broken edges.

The trees are lighter now, and so is the sky above my garden. Today I begin the slower work: replanting, sweeping, mending. It reminds me that a garden is always both wound and healing, loss and renewal. What feels damaged now will, with time and tending, give rise to new growth.

Mushroom milkshake:

As I step into my garden, I'm immediately embraced by the peaceful atmosphere of my own private retreat. From where I sit in one of the three black metal chairs on my brick patio, I can take in the full splendor of the space I've lovingly created. The gentle rustling of leaves from the mature trees above provides a natural canopy, casting dancing shadows across my favorite reading spot. To my delight, birds call to each other from the branches – chickadees whistle their cheerful songs, cardinals announce their presence with bright chirps, and occasionally a melodious robin adds its voice to nature's chorus. I've positioned my potted plants strategically around the seating area, their vibrant blooms and lush foliage bringing life and color to every corner of my outdoor sanctuary.

Following the stepping stone path I laid myself, I often wander through my garden, enjoying how the stones guide me past an array of carefully tended plants and flowers that I've collected over the years. The hanging plants I've nurtured sway gently in the breeze, and I smile every time I see the garden hose lying ready for my daily watering routine. The morning songbirds provide a delightful soundtrack, their sweet melodies adding another layer of enchantment to this space. This garden is more than just an outdoor area to me; it's a living, breathing extension of my home where I can find peace, inspiration, and joy in the natural world I've helped create.