A Garden Begins – In Rain, Soil, and Good Intentions

This is an ad-free premiere of a vlog that will be posted tomorrow on YouTube. If you prefer, you can watch it on my YouTube channel (with ad interruptions) here.

There’s a certain magic that happens when a long-held idea finally breaks ground—literally. This week, my balcony, already a sanctuary each spring and summer, took its first steps into becoming a garden. It’s something I’ve dreamed of for ages, but like all good things, it needed its time.

Starting a garden isn’t just about plants. It’s about space—physical, mental, emotional. And as we wheeled our cart through the garden center, comparing seedlings, sniffing herbs, and debating the virtues of hot peppers versus sweet, I realized we weren’t just buying plants. We were planting hopes.

We came home with basil, parsley, oregano, and cherry tomatoes. Peppers that promise a little fire. Swiss chard for resilience. Seeds of radish and arugula that grow fast and remind us that some things really do come easy with care. And stevia—because a touch of sweetness, like a touch of sun, goes a long way.

The stackable planters I ordered weren’t just a space solution—they were a metaphor. For building up, layer by layer, something small and beautiful. Something ours. Something imperfect. And yes, I broke one pot trying to poke a hole in it. Because sometimes, that’s how learning feels—like cracking plastic, like starting over.

And then there was the rain. So much rain. The kind that soaks through jackets and slows down days. I could have felt frustrated. But instead, I watched it nourish what we’d planted, and I let it soften my own expectations. Maybe this is what gardening teaches best: patience, presence, and the beauty of tending to something just because you love it.

A surprise trip to Dollar Tree added fairy lights and garden gloves to the mix—simple things that made me feel like a kid building a fort. Because growing things isn’t about control. It’s about joy. And a little whimsy never hurts.

So here we are: soil under nails, seedlings in makeshift pots, a garden growing between raindrops and sunny spells. It’s not just about what we’ll harvest. It’s about what we’re learning along the way. That mistakes are part of it. That joy can be thrifty. That presence, like basil, thrives with just a little attention.

This is just the beginning. And it’s already beautiful.

What would you grow if you gave yourself the space to start?