I remembered long ago in high school when I went to actually test my hand at gardening, all I needed to do was scrape the sod off of the area where I wanted a garden and plant, right? Never mind that we had clay for soil, that I had never read a gardening magazine or book, and that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I was pretty sure it couldn’t be that difficult. I chose a spot, roto-tilled the sod, and transplanted some purple irises which were growing out in the shelterbelt, which, of course, grew quite well, because the old irises grow anywhere along with yucca, coneflower, and asters.

I’m victorious! Now I order from every garden catalog I got, taking little note of zones or water needs or growing conditions. I’m not going to mention how much money I lost on testing the hardiness zone for trees and perennials. And that’s just the plants!

Every spin-ny, flower-y, bug-gy, sil-ly garden ornament the stores sold showed up in my gardens. It looked like a dollar store had thrown up in my yard. But I persisted. I started reading gardening magazines and books. I learned about amending the soil, compost, zones, and growing needs—all the important things a successful gardener needs to know. As the garden grows, so does the gardener, they say. I’m here to say the reverse is equally true.

Many years later, the cheap tacky stuff is all gone (some people may have a different opinion), and I am slowly finding my voice in the gardens that surround my house. Each year, I get rid of more grass and replace it with more color and vegetables. I subscribe to the wabi-sabi Japanese theory that there is beauty in imperfection. I like rustic, handmade, repurposed garden art (maybe I am too lazy to throw it away). If something breaks or rots, that’s fine. Nothing lasts forever, nor is it meant to. My gardens are not perfect by any means. Perfect is perfectly boring.