There’s a point in the season where everything starts to speed up. It’s subtle at first. A few warmer days, as if the soil is begging for plants. And then all at once, it feels like the window is finally open. Not wide or forever, just long enough that you can feel it.

And with it comes this kind of energy that’s hard to name. Part excitement, part pressure, part hope.

Because this is the stretch where things finally go in the ground. The plans you’ve been obsessing over, the starts you’ve been tending, the ideas that have been sitting just on the edge of becoming something real. This is when you finally get to move them into the soil :)

And this is also the point where it starts to feel more real. It’s something that’s been coming up in the garden circles too, not as a topic exactly, but in the way people talk once they settle in. What they’re putting in the ground, what they’re unsure about, what they’re hoping will take.

Because alongside the excitement is something else, uncertainty. The weather can still turn (Mother Nature does as she pleases), the timing might be off, the soil might not be quite what you thought it was.

Things might take, or they might not. You don’t really know yet.

You’re working with a mix of instinct and hope, trying to catch the right moment without being able to control it. And it creates this quiet pressure. Not panic, not urgency in the loud sense, just a steady awareness that this matters. All the while knowing that what you do right now shapes the season.

It’s a strange place to be. You’re asked to move forward before you have proof. To plant before you know. To commit to something that’s still uncertain.

And I think this is one of the most honest parts of gardening. Not when everything is growing, and not when everything has settled, but right here. Where you’re making decisions in real time, working with what you have, trying to read the conditions and respond, even though you can’t fully see how it’s going to play out.

It’s not that different from other parts of life. That same feeling of thinking this might be the moment, but not being entirely sure. And still choosing to move.

If you’re in that space right now, this is exactly the kind of thing that opens up when people sit down together.

If you’ve been wanting to come to a garden circle, there are still a few spots open for the upcoming gatherings:

May Gatherings

Tuesday, May 5 — Boise: Hyde Perk Coffee House • 1:30 PM
This circle is full.

Tuesday, May 12 — Nampa: Franz Witte Garden Center • 1:30 PM
This circle is full.

Tuesday, May 19 — Boise: Hyde Perk Coffee House • 1:30 PM
A few spots are available.
👉 Reserve your place

Tuesday, May 26 — Nampa: Franz Witte Garden Center • 1:30 PM
A few spots are available.
👉 Reserve your place

Ashley

There’s a version of gardening that lives in our heads long before anything is planted. It’s calm there, ordered, slightly idealized, the kind of version where everything unfolds with a perfect sense of rhythm.

You picture the garden beds, the spacing, the timing. You imagine yourself moving through it all with intention, planting at the right moment, staying on top of things, watching it come together just as you thought it would.

What actually happens

And then the season actually starts, and almost immediately, something doesn’t line up.

Here in Emmett, after all that rain last week, the ground softened, the air warmed (just a little) and things really started moving. Not just the things I planted, but everything. The weeds especially. They came in fast, like they had been waiting, spreading through spaces I thought I had under control, filling in the gaps before I even noticed they were there. You can almost watch it happen if you stand still long enough.

At the same time, the things I did plant feel slower. Some are doing well, some are just sitting there, and some don’t seem to be doing much of anything at all. Nothing is failing exactly, but it already doesn’t match the version I had in my head.

The part we don’t talk about

There’s a particular feeling that comes with that. Subtle, but persistent. A kind of reckoning that’s hard to name but easy to recognize.

I thought this would be going differently by now.

Not better, necessarily. Just further along. More settled. A little more in place.

It’s not something people really talk about. Not in the photos, or the conversations that stay on the surface. Not when we’re sharing what’s growing or what’s working. But it’s there in almost every garden, I think. That space where things are uneven, where some parts are thriving, some are stalled, and some have been overtaken by something you didn’t plan for.

The instinct to fix it

And the instinct is to tighten around it. To catch up, to fix it, to clear the weeds, rework the plan, and try to bring everything back into alignment with what you thought it should be.

But if you stay there for a moment longer, without immediately moving to correct it, something else begins to surface. Not an answer exactly, but a shift:

An acceptance.

A different way of seeing it

The garden isn’t following your plan. It never was. It’s responding to the rain, the soil, the timing, the things you did and didn’t do, and a hundred other factors you don’t fully see. It’s moving in its own rhythm, whether you’re keeping up with it or not.

The weeds aren’t a failure. They’re just part of what grows when conditions are right. And you’re in relationship with all of it, not managing it from above, but participating in it as it unfolds.

Not just the garden

I think that’s the part no one really talks about.

Not just in gardening, but in life too.

That feeling of being somewhere in the middle of things, where parts of your life are growing easily, almost without effort, and other parts feel stalled or unclear. Where something unexpected has taken up more space than you meant for it to. Where the picture you had in your head doesn’t quite match what’s actually here.

And the quiet question underneath it:

Am I doing this wrong, or is this just what it looks like while it’s still unfolding?

There isn’t a clean answer to that. But something shifts when you stop trying to resolve it immediately, when you let yourself be in it for a moment as it is. Slightly uneven. Not fully formed. Still becoming something.

Where this shows up

This is the kind of thing that’s been coming up in the garden circles. Not as a topic, exactly, but in the way conversations unfold when people have a little space to talk honestly.

Someone mentions how fast the weeds came in after the rain. Someone else shares what didn’t come up the way they expected. And without trying to, it opens into something a little more real than what we usually say out loud.

An open invitation

The next one is Tuesday in Eagle.

There are five people signed up so far, so there are only three seats left.

If you’ve been thinking about coming, this would be a really easy one to step into.

Reserve Your Seat

Hi,

If you’ve been quietly following along this past week, I wanted to share a quick update on what’s been unfolding with Seed & Season.

Just a short while ago, there were only a handful of people here… and now there are nearly 80 of you!

I’ve been thinking a lot about what that means.

After hosting the first Garden Circle last Tuesday, one thing became really clear: People aren’t looking for more information about gardening.

They’re looking for a place to actually talk about it. Not just what’s working
but what didn’t go the way you thought it would what you’re unsure about
or even just what you’re noticing right now.

The first circle started quietly, then it opened up. By the end, there was this feeling in the room that’s hard to explain, but easy to recognize when you’re in it.

That’s really what these are.

Not classes. Not a place to get your garden “fixed.” Just a small group, sitting together, talking about what’s actually happening in our gardens.

You don’t need experience, you don’t need to prepare anything, and you don’t even have to share if you don’t want to.

Because of how quickly this is growing, I’m being intentional about how these circles open.

Right now, I’m hosting one circle at a time so each one stays small and grounded.

The next Garden Circle will be held in Eagle on Tuesday, April 28 @ Salt & Light Coffee Lounge at 1:30 PM

If you’ve been waiting for something closer to Boise, Meridian, or Nampa, this is the first one. Garden circle will be limited to 8 seats and an RSVP is required.

Reserve your spot for Eagle

For those in Emmett, I’ll continue hosting here, but I’m spacing the circles out as this grows.

If you’d like to join a future Emmett gathering, you can add your name here and I’ll reach out as new dates open:

Join the Emmett waitlist

I’m really glad you’re here.

This is starting to take shape in a way I didn’t expect, and it feels meaningful to build it slowly and well.

—Ashley

What does your garden teach you?

I didn’t know what people would say. I expected a range of answers. Maybe something about growth, or creativity, or even failure. But almost every woman, in her own way, said the same thing: Patience.

It landed differently than I expected. Not as a nice idea, not as something poetic, but as something very real, and very present. Because this week, patience wasn’t optional.

All week, I’ve been waiting to plant. Back in February, I started perennial flowers. I’ve been tending them for months; adjusting light, watering carefully, hardening them off, moving them outside.

They’re ready, I’m ready. And still, they just sat outside, waiting. Because the weather turned. Rain, cold, even a little bit of snow here in Emmett. The kind of weather that keeps you from doing the exact thing you’ve been working toward for months.

Every day, I kept looking out, thinking, maybe today. And every day, the garden answered back the same way: Not yet.

Sitting in that circle, hearing everyone say “patience,” I realized something: We don’t usually choose patience, we get placed into it.

You can do everything right in a garden; start seeds on time: care for them well, plan your beds and still, you don’t get to decide when things move forward.

The conditions have to be right.

The soil has to be ready and the timing has to line up and if you push it? You usually find out later that the garden was right.

This is the part no one really talks about, the in-between. The stretch where everything is prepared, but nothing is happening yet. It can feel like you’re behind. But when you actually sit with other gardeners and hear what’s really going on, you realize:

Everyone is in some version of this; seeds that didn’t take, plants that are stalled, plans that are waiting on weather. No one’s garden is moving in a straight line.

And somehow, talking to others about their gardens changes things. Patience stops feeling like something you’re failing at and starts feeling like part of the process.

This week, instead of planting, I waited.

I walked the garden without changing anything, I checked the soil without trying to fix it and let things stay unfinished.

Certainly not because I wanted to but because there wasn’t another option; and maybe that’s what the garden teaches best.

Not how to grow faster or how to get it right but how to stay with something when it’s not moving yet.

The weather will shift, the ground will warm, the planting will happen-it always does.

If this is where you are right now

If your garden feels like it’s paused…if you’re waiting on timing, or weather, or the next step…you’re not off track.

This is part of it.

Come sit with us

The Garden Circles are where these kinds of conversations happen. Not as advice or instruction, but as a place to actually say what’s going on and hear that you’re not the only one in it.

If that’s something you’ve been looking for, you’re welcome to join us.

Join a Circle

Or stay connected through the Garden Society

If you want to follow along as this season unfolds, the Garden Society is where I share:

• Weekly garden reflections

• Monthly online gatherings

• What I’m experimenting with in real time

Subscribe now

The question was simple: What does your garden teach you?

This week, the answer was patience, not the kind you choose…the kind you learn by living it.

-Ashley

I had every intention of planting these this weekend.

Instead, it rained and rained, and everything turned to mud. So they’re still sitting here, waiting.

But I keep coming out to check on them anyway. The leaves look greener, fuller. Like they’re ready, even if the ground isn’t quite there yet.

There’s something about this part of the season I love so much; not everything is on schedule, but everything is still moving.

This week’s Garden Circle is Tuesday at 1:30 in Emmett. It’s a small group, just a handful of people, sitting together and talking about what’s actually happening in our gardens right now. What’s growing, what’s not, and what we’re trying next.

No experience needed. No pressure to know anything.

If you’ve been thinking about coming, this is a good week to try it.

A simple question to carry with you:
What’s waiting in your garden right now?

You’re always welcome to come once and see if it feels like a fit. Learn more about the garden circle here.

Reserve Your Seat

-Ashley

There’s a moment in early spring when everything feels like it’s on the edge of becoming. Not fully awake, not dormant anymore either, just softening. I was outside this morning, not really to work or accomplish anything, just walking the edges of the yard and noticing what had changed overnight.

The trees are starting to bloom now, not all at once and not in any kind of showy way, just small clusters of pink opening quietly along the branches. And my dog Emmett, of course, was the first to notice. He stopped at one of the younger trees and leaned in, slow and curious, like he understood something I didn’t. No urgency, no purpose, just there, taking it in.

It struck me how rarely I do that. Even in the garden, it’s so easy to move straight into doing, thinking about what needs to be planted, what needs to be fixed, what’s behind, what’s next. But this part of the season isn’t asking for that yet. It’s asking for attention, for noticing what’s already happening without me.

The buds forming, the soil warming, the quiet return of life that doesn’t need to be rushed. I think we miss this part if we’re not careful. We jump straight from winter into productivity, skipping over the in-between where things are still unfolding in their own time.

But this is the part that sets the tone for everything that comes next. Not the planning or the output, but the noticing. So lately, I’ve been trying to stay here a little longer, walking slower, letting things be unfinished, trusting that not everything needs my hands on it to grow. Some things just need space. And maybe that’s what seasonal living really is. Not doing more in each season, but learning how to be inside it.

-Ashley

Start Here

Seed & Season is a space for people who feel drawn to the garden. Not for perfection or performance, but for something quieter. A way of living that follows the seasons instead of fighting them. This is about growing food, yes, but it’s also about paying attention.

Noticing what’s working, what isn’t, and what the garden is asking of you next. Whether you have a backyard, a few pots, or just a curiosity you can’t quite explain, you’re in the right place.

What You’ll Find Here

You don’t need experience to begin, and you don’t need a plan. Inside Seed & Season, you’ll find simple, seasonal guidance rooted in real life, along with reflections from the garden as it changes week to week.

There are small experiments you can try in your own space and a growing community of people learning as they go. Nothing here is meant to overwhelm you. The goal is to make it easier to start, and to keep going.

Garden Circles

At the heart of Seed & Season are the Garden Circles. These are small, in-person gatherings where we come together to talk about what’s happening in our gardens right now. What’s growing, what’s struggling, and what we’re trying next.

There’s no pressure to be an expert and no expectation to have it figured out. It’s simply a space to show up, share honestly, and listen. If you’ve been wanting to connect with other people who are doing this too, this is where that begins.

The Garden

The Garden is where I share what’s happening in my own space. What I’m planting, what’s thriving, what’s failing, and what I’m learning along the way. It’s not a highlight reel. It’s a record of the season as it actually unfolds.

If You’re New

If you’re new, start simple. Join a Garden Circle if there’s one nearby, or subscribe to stay connected as the season unfolds. You don’t need to catch up or figure everything out first. Just begin where you are.

Gardens don’t rush, and they don’t force. They respond to attention, consistency, and time. This space is built the same way.

-Ashley

Every garden year starts quietly.

Not with harvests or overflowing beds, but with the small decisions that shape the entire season. What to plant. Where to plant it. What to simplify. What to let go of.

This year I’m building my kitchen garden around a few crops I know I love to grow and actually use in the kitchen. Instead of trying to grow everything, I’m focusing on what works well in my climate and what I know I will harvest often.

Right now in my garden in Idaho, the season is just beginning.

The soil is still cold in the mornings, but the planning stage is fully underway. Seed trays are starting to appear on the counter. Beds are being cleared. Irrigation lines are getting checked. The garden is waking up again.

This year I’m keeping my growing plan simple.

I’m focusing on a handful of reliable crops:

• cilantro & basil
• corn, beans & squash
• lettuce & arugula
• tomatoes & peppers
• lavender & sunflowers
• seasonal flowers like marigolds and zinnias

These are the plants I return to every year because they are productive, useful, and satisfying to grow.

Some of these will go into my kitchen garden. Some will become plant starts I’ll sell from a small farm stand.

But mostly they are being grown because I love the rhythm of tending them.

Seed & Season will follow this garden through the entire year. I’ll share what I’m planting, what’s working, what fails, and how to build a garden that actually fits into everyday life.

Not a perfect garden. A real one.

If you’re here because you’ve been thinking about growing food, this is the perfect moment to begin. Early spring is when the garden starts taking shape.

The first seeds are small.

But they change everything.

Let’s grow something this year,

Ashley

Garden Circles are small, in-person gatherings rooted in the rhythm of the growing season.

They’re a place to come as you are, whether you’ve been gardening for years or are just beginning to pay attention to it. There’s no pressure to be an expert and nothing to prepare ahead of time. You don’t need to bring anything other than a willingness to show up.

Each circle is shaped by what’s happening right now. What’s growing well, what’s struggling, what’s surprising you, and what you’re trying next. The conversation moves with the season, just like the garden does.

These are not classes or workshops. There’s nothing to learn in the traditional sense and no one leading from the front. Instead, the circle is shared. Everyone has space to speak, and everyone has space to listen.

There’s something different that happens when people gather this way. You start to notice more. You leave with new ideas, not because someone taught them to you, but because you heard what others are seeing and trying in their own spaces.

Over time, the circles begin to feel familiar. The same faces return, the season progresses, and the garden becomes something you’re not tending alone.

If you’ve been wanting a way to connect with others who are doing this too, this is where it begins.

You can join a single gathering or come regularly throughout the season. There’s no expectation, just an open invitation.

Upcoming gatherings are listed here:

Join a Circle

Garden circles are simply a space to show up, share what’s real and slowly grow something together over the season.

I’m really looking forward to seeing what unfolds, both in the gardens and in the conversations.

-Ashley

Seed & Season Garden Society was created from a simple observation: many people spend time tending gardens, but very few have a place to talk about the experience with others.

Gardens invite us into a slower rhythm. We plant seeds, wait for things to grow, learn from what works and what doesn’t, and begin again each season. Seed & Season was created as a space where people who feel connected to that rhythm can gather and share what the garden is teaching them.

The society gathers primarily through Garden Circles, small conversations inspired by the garden and the seasons. Participants sit together and move through a few simple questions about what’s happening in their gardens and in the season.

→ View Upcoming Gatherings

These gatherings are not gardening classes and no experience is required. Some people come because they grow kitchen gardens, others are just beginning, and many simply enjoy being around others who appreciate seeds, soil, and the changing seasons.

Over time, Seed & Season will also host seasonal gatherings, collaborative workshops with local artists and practitioners, and community events that celebrate the act of growing and tending living things.

At its heart, Seed & Season is simply a place to slow down, share stories from the garden, and build community around the quiet rhythm of the year.

Small, in-person gatherings for people who want to talk about what’s actually happening in their gardens right now. Just a small group, sitting together, sharing what’s growing, what’s not, and what we’re noticing along the way.

May Gatherings

Tuesday, May 5 — Boise: Hyde Perk Coffee House • 1:30 PM
This circle is full.

Tuesday, May 12 — Nampa: Franz Witte Garden Center • 1:30 PM
This circle is full:
Join the Waitlist

Tuesday, May 19— Boise: Hyde Perk Coffee House • 1:30 PM
This circle is full:
Join the Waitlist

Tuesday, May 26 — Nampa: Franz Witte Garden Center • 1:30 PM
A few spots are available.
Reserve your place

What to expect

• Small group (limited seats)

• A quiet, guided conversation

• A mix of gardeners at different stages

• A space that tends to open up more as we go

On one half of the planter, everything looked exactly as expected. My hyssop plant, now in its third year, was beginning to wake up again. The stems were pushing out fresh green growth, just like they have every spring since I planted it.

But the other half of the planter was a completely different story.

A thick patch of green had started filling in, and I had no idea what it was.

At first I assumed it was just more hyssop emerging. But as the days went by and the plants got larger, I started noticing that something didn’t quite add up. The color wasn’t quite the same. The leaves were shaped differently. The overall growth habit looked nothing like the hyssop next to it.

And that’s when I realized I might have a little garden mystery on my hands.

I don’t think I planted anything there last fall. But with the kind of gardener I am, it’s hard to say for sure.

Last autumn, when I was trimming the dried seed heads off the hyssop flowers, I remember taking the little handful of seeds and sprinkling them over the empty side of the planter. My thinking at the time was simple enough. If a little hyssop was good, a whole tub of hyssop would be even better.

So I scattered the seeds across the soil and left it at that.

There was no labeling. No careful spacing. No real planning at all. Just a quick moment of curiosity and a casual handful of seeds tossed into the dirt.

Now that spring has arrived, that casual decision has turned into a puzzle.

The plants that have emerged are thick and healthy, but they don’t look like hyssop. They could be weeds, although they don’t quite look like the usual weeds that pop up around here. Out of curiosity, I did a quick search online, and one suggestion said they might be carnations.

That seems unlikely, considering I’ve never planted carnations in that planter before (or ever).

Which leaves me with the simplest explanation, I have no idea what’s growing there.

This kind of thing actually happens more often in gardens than we like to admit. Seeds move around. Birds drop them. Squirrels bury them. Dogs dig through beds and carry things from one part of the yard to another.

Sometimes seeds from last year reappear where you least expect them. Other times you forget what you planted entirely.

Gardens have a way of rearranging our plans, and honestly, that’s part of the fun.

Right now the planter has become a small mystery garden. Maybe I sprinkled something else there without remembering. Maybe another plant reseeded itself. Maybe it’s simply a stage of hyssop growth that I’ve never noticed before.

Whatever it is, I’ve decided not to rush the answer.

Instead of digging anything out or trying too hard to identify it right away, I’m going to let the garden reveal the answer in its own time. I’ll watch how the leaves change. I’ll see if the plants eventually flower. Maybe the scent or the blooms will finally give it away.

Eventually the plants will tell me what they are.

Not every garden experiment is carefully planned. Sometimes experiments start with spreadsheets and seed trays and neat rows. Other times they start with a handful of seeds tossed casually into a planter.

Sometimes those seeds grow into something wonderful.

Other times nothing comes of it at all.

And sometimes, like this little metal tub in my yard, the garden answers with something unexpected.

Curiosity in the garden often looks like sprinkling seeds and waiting to see what happens.

Ashley

Some use soil blocks. Some directly sow into the garden. Others start seeds in tidy little six-packs, one seed carefully placed into each cell. There are reusable trays, peat pellets, egg cartons, and every other method you can think of.

Over time, I’ve tried a lot of them.

I experimented with the pre-made moss pellets. I tried starting seeds in egg cartons. I played around with different trays and containers. Eventually I settled on what worked best for my basement setup: sturdy seed trays and six-pack inserts. I use the ones from Bootstrap Farmer, mostly because they’re durable and the colors make my grow setup feel a little more cheerful during the long indoor seed-starting season.

My usual method has been pretty straightforward. One seed per cell. Once the seedlings grow large enough, I pot them up into bigger containers.

It’s a reliable system. Germination is usually good, and it produces healthy plants.

But this year I decided to break my own rules.

Part of the inspiration came from a gardener I’ve followed for years, a YouTuber named Jessica Sowards from Roots and Refuge Farm. Her approach is a little different. Instead of placing one seed per tiny cell, she often starts seeds in larger pots and sprinkles multiple seeds together in the same container. Later, she separates them out once they’ve grown a bit.

It’s a method I’ve watched for years but never really tried.

Then my broccoli and cauliflower had a rough start this season.

They became leggy under the humidity dome and lights, and my attempts to rescue them after potting them up didn’t go particularly well. Watching them struggle made me pause and wonder if part of the problem might actually be my system.

That’s when curiosity kicked in.

Yesterday I started a small experiment.

Instead of the usual six-pack cells, I used larger four-inch pots. Into each pot, I planted somewhere between nine and twelve seeds. For the smaller seeds, I simply sprinkled them across the surface and pressed them lightly into the soil. For the larger seeds, I spaced them out a bit more intentionally.

The idea is simple. I’ll allow the strongest seedlings to emerge and then thin them later, keeping the healthiest plants and removing the weaker ones.

There are a few reasons this method might work better.

For one, it could reduce transplant shock. Looking back, I suspect I may have moved my broccoli and cauliflower seedlings too early during their first round this year. Starting them in a larger container from the beginning might give them a stronger start before they ever need to move.

I’m also curious whether the seedlings will grow sturdier in the larger pots. Will the roots develop better? Will the plants be easier to handle when it’s time to separate them?

And if this works, it might help me skip one of the most tedious parts of seed starting: potting up.

At this stage of life, time matters. I have a small person crawling around the house now, and gardening has to fit into shorter pockets of the day than it used to. If a different method can produce strong plants while saving me a step, that’s a win.

But the truth about gardening experiments is that nothing is ever perfectly predictable.

Every gardener develops their own techniques over time. What works beautifully in one garden may completely fail in another. Soil is different. Light is different. Weather is different.

That’s part of what makes gardening so interesting.

Each season offers another chance to test something new.

Curiosity is one of the best tools a gardener has. You try something different not because you know it will work, but because you want to see what happens.

And sometimes those small experiments lead to the techniques you end up using for years.

As this experiment unfolds, I’ll report back on a few things: the germination rate, how sturdy the seedlings become, and whether this method actually makes transplanting easier later on.

Most importantly, I’ll see if it’s a technique worth repeating next season.

In the meantime, I encourage you to run your own small experiments in the garden.

Ask yourself: what “rules” have you followed simply because that’s how it’s always been done?

And what might happen if you tried breaking one of them?

Ashley

Seed & Season Garden Society hosts small, in-person garden circles in Gem County & The Treasure Valley where a handful of people gather to talk about what’s actually happening in their gardens right now.

Not advice.
Not a class.
Just real conversation.

→ View Upcoming Gatherings

What this is

These are small, guided conversations for people who:

• have a garden

• are thinking about starting one

• or just feel drawn to this way of living

We sit together and talk about what’s real.

What’s growing, what’s not & what we’re trying next.

There’s no pressure to know anything and you don’t have to be “good” at gardening, you just have to show up.

What it feels like

It’s slower than most things.

Everyone gets space to talk, no one interrupts, no one fixes anything for you.

You leave feeling:

• clearer

• more connected

• and more grounded in your own garden

Who it’s for

This is for you if:

• you garden alone most of the time

• you want something more meaningful than a class or workshop

• you enjoy hearing how other people are figuring things out

How it works

Circles are small (usually 6–8 people). Most meet in person around Emmett, Eagle, and the surrounding area.

There’s usually one free drop-in circle each month, and the rest are paid gatherings.

You can come once or you can come regularly and let it build over the season.

→ View Upcoming Gatherings

A note

Garden circles are simply a space to show up, share what’s real,
and slowly grow something together over the season.

I’m really looking forward to seeing what unfolds, both in the gardens and in the conversations.

-Ashley

Last year I took a complete sabbatical from the garden. By the time early spring arrived, I was eight months pregnant and didn’t have the energy to commit to a full summer of planting, tending, and harvesting. Instead of pushing through, I stepped back and let the garden rest for a season.

Taking a year off has made coming back to it feel even more exciting.

This year I started my first seeds on February 14th: broccoli and cauliflower. It felt good to be back at the seed trays again, but I quickly realized I might be a little rusty after my year away.

I don’t think I pulled the seedlings off the heat mat quickly enough. In my basement setup, the trays sit under dome lids and they’re a bit farther from the grow lights than ideal. Because of that, the seedlings stretched toward the light and became leggy.

Once that happens, you’re already trying to recover from a less-than-perfect start.

I tried to rescue them by up-potting them, hoping they would strengthen up once they had more room. I even added a fan nearby to help toughen up their stems. Still, they never really seemed happy.

Then I decided to try an experiment.

When the seedlings were about two weeks old, I moved a few of them into my cold frame outside without hardening them off first. I wanted to see if they could adapt to the colder environment and possibly grow stronger outdoors.

They did not.

Every single one shriveled up and died.

At that point it felt safe to say the broccoli and cauliflower seedlings had not had a great start this year.

But in the spirit of experimentation, I tried something else. I took the remaining seeds from the packets and simply scattered them into the soil inside the cold frame. No trays. No grow lights. No careful indoor setup.

Just seeds in the soil, outside where they’ll ultimately grow.

And now, a few weeks later, those seeds are starting to come up.

Tiny little brassica seedlings are pushing through the soil, and I’m hopeful that starting them outside might actually produce stronger plants than the ones I struggled to raise indoors.

Broccoli and cauliflower have never been my most successful crops. I’m not sure if it’s a climate issue, a timing issue, or simply something I haven’t quite figured out yet. Every gardener seems to have one or two crops that remain slightly mysterious.

For me, brassicas might be that crop.

But that’s also part of what makes gardening interesting. Every season is a chance to try again, adjust something, and see what happens.

So this year’s broccoli and cauliflower are officially an experiment.

Some failure, some hope, and a few tiny seedlings in the cold frame that just might surprise me.

Ashley

Strawberries in the middle of winter. Tomatoes in January. Cherries long before summer has even arrived. But the strange thing is that many of these foods barely taste like anything when they’re out of season. Strawberries are pale and watery. Tomatoes are firm but flavorless, grown thousands of miles away and shipped across the country before they ever reach the shelf.

And yet the grocery store looks the same year-round.

The same foods, the same lighting, the same aisles. Our routines often look the same too. We cook the same meals, shop the same way, and move through life with very little indication that the seasons outside are actually changing.

Modern life has quietly flattened the calendar.

It tries to make every month feel the same.

But the human body and mind were never designed for that kind of sameness. We are built for cycles. For beginnings and endings. For seasons of activity and seasons of rest.

Long before the industrial and technological revolutions reshaped daily life, people moved with the seasons because they had to.

Planting happened at certain times of year. Harvest came later. Food was preserved for winter because there was no guarantee it would be available once the cold arrived. Work followed the rhythm of the natural world, and periods of rest were built into the calendar simply because the land itself demanded it.

Nature shaped everyday life.

Now we’ve removed most of the reminders of it.

When strawberries are available twelve months a year, they stop feeling special. When tomatoes are always on the shelf, there’s nothing to look forward to when summer finally arrives.

Food loses its sense of timing.

And when the seasons disappear from our food and routines, something else disappears with them.

We begin to expect constant productivity. The same level of energy in January as we have in July. The same pace of life regardless of what is happening in the natural world around us.

At the same time, many people feel increasingly disconnected from nature without quite understanding why.

Living seasonally pushes back against that.

It reminds us that there is a time for planting and a time for harvest. A time for growth and a time for rest. A time when life is bursting forward and a time when things grow quiet again.

The garden makes this impossible to ignore.

You can’t rush a tomato plant. Seeds germinate when conditions are right. Cold weather forces the garden into dormancy whether we like it or not. When you grow food, you are constantly reminded that life moves in cycles.

And once you begin to notice those cycles, it changes the way you move through the year.

You start looking forward to the first tomatoes of summer because you know they won’t last forever. You notice the quiet slowdown of autumn. You accept that winter might be a season for planning, resting, and preparing for what comes next.

Living seasonally may seem unusual today, but it’s actually the most natural rhythm there is.

It’s simply remembering something that people once understood without needing to think about it.

And sometimes the easiest way to begin remembering is simple.

Grow something.

Watch how long it takes. Watch what the season asks of it. And watch how it changes the way you think about time, food, and the rhythm of life itself.

Ashley

I’ve even declared that I won’t go to grocery stores that don’t have self-checkout. I want to grab what I need and leave. Costco is the worst. The whole place has airport energy. Bright lights, crowds, carts everywhere. It feels rushed and overstimulating, and I leave feeling like my nervous system has been through something.

The experience couldn’t be further from what happens in a garden.

When I step outside to tend the garden, everything slows down. I walk the beds, check on what’s sprouting, pull a few weeds, harvest something for dinner. There’s a quiet rhythm to it that feels completely different from the pace of modern life.

And when it comes time to harvest, there is nothing quite like it.

Cooking a meal with vegetables you grew yourself is deeply satisfying. Even something simple like making soup becomes meaningful when the onions, carrots, herbs, and tomatoes all came from your own garden. You remember planting them. You watched them grow. You waited for the right moment to harvest them.

From time to time someone will say to me, “Isn’t that kind of a waste of time? You could just go buy an onion at the store.”

Whenever I hear that, I know I’m talking to someone who has never gardened.

Because when you’ve grown your own food, you understand that the garden is about much more than efficiency. It’s about connection. Connection to the seasons, to the work that brings food to the table, and to the quiet satisfaction of creating something with your own hands.

The garden also teaches lessons that reach far beyond the soil.

You learn patience as seeds slowly germinate. You learn resilience when something fails and you plant again. You learn about the full cycle of life, from the first tiny sprout to the moment something finally reaches harvest.

Gardening teaches you to stay the course, to care for something over time, and to trust the process even when progress is slow.

And the surprising thing is that you don’t need a huge garden to experience this.

Growing even a few things can change the way you live. It changes how you look at food. It changes how you move through the seasons. And it changes how you understand the work and patience behind something as simple as a tomato, an onion, or a handful of herbs.

When you experience the full journey from seed to harvest, food stops being something you simply buy.

It becomes something you participate in.

And once you’ve experienced that, it’s hard to go back.

Ashley

Spring is arriving.

And with it comes a feeling I wait for every year.

Hope.

Last year I didn’t garden at all. By the time early spring arrived, I was eight months pregnant and trying to decide if I could still manage a garden. Part of me wanted to try anyway. I imagined keeping things small, maybe a few beds, maybe a couple of tomatoes. But deep down I knew it probably wasn’t realistic.

My instincts were right.

Within weeks I was holding a newborn and completely underwater. Those early months of motherhood are their own season, and gardening simply didn’t fit into that chapter.

This year feels completely different.

For a million reasons.

This morning I sat outside at our old rustic picnic table with a stack of seed packets in front of me. My dog Stanley climbed right up onto the tabletop and started pacing around like he always does when he wants to be close to me. Apparently sitting next to me on the bench is not enough. If I’m at the table, he must also be at the table.

The air smells like spring. And sitting there, I felt that familiar internal shift that happens every year when the growing season begins.

Starting seeds is my favorite part of the entire gardening process. More than harvesting. More than planning beds. Even more than those slow summer evenings watering the garden.

Because this moment holds the most possibility.

A tiny seed in your hand is pure optimism. You press it into the soil knowing it might become something. Or it might not. Every year the garden surprises you. Some things thrive. Some things struggle. Some things fail completely.

And that uncertainty is part of what makes it so interesting.

Even after five seasons of gardening here, I still don’t really know what will happen. The weather will do what it wants. Seeds will behave in ways you don’t expect. Every year the garden teaches something new.

This season is already starting a little differently than usual.

Normally during the winter I spend weeks with seed catalogs spread across the table. I circle varieties. I imagine what each bed will look like. I plan the entire season before anything ever touches soil.

That didn’t happen this year.

Life with a ten-month-old baby boy has a way of rearranging your priorities. Between naps, teething, crawling, and the constant motion of having a baby in the house, those slow winter planning sessions never really materialized.

Instead, I stopped by the small greenhouse shop in town and picked out whatever seeds caught my eye. Some are local brands. Some aren’t. A few varieties I recognize. Others I know nothing about beyond what the packet says.

And that’s fine.

Gardening doesn’t always happen in perfectly planned seasons. Sometimes you work with the time and energy you have.

Right now that energy is enough to sit outside, breathe in the warm air, and finally plant my tomatoes.

I kept putting it off all weekend. Not because I didn’t want to do it, but because wrangling a ten-month-old all day is exhausting in a way that’s hard to explain until you experience it. By the end of the day the seed trays were still sitting on the table outside and I was still sitting on the couch.

But this morning there was a small window of quiet.

A little sun. A little space.

Enough time to press seeds into soil and begin the season.

And somewhere in the middle of that moment, another idea started forming.

Maybe this is the year I finally do the farm stand.

I only decided that two days ago, which feels very appropriate for how this entire season seems to be unfolding.

A little loose.

A little unplanned.

A little chaotic.

But full of possibility.

Ashley