I Plant Colors I Can Feel

There’s a certain blue I wait for every spring. It comes from a flower I don’t even remember planting, tucked near the fence like it snuck in on its own. But when it blooms—just for a week or two—it changes how I see the whole garden. Suddenly the green feels louder. The soil smells sweeter. I walk slower.

I used to think gardening was about effort: pruning, planning, harvesting, keeping things *under control*. But lately, it feels more like listening. The plants don’t need me to dominate—they just want me to notice. Sometimes the noticing is enough.

There are days I don’t even dig. I just walk the space, adjust a pot by a few degrees, brush my fingers across mint leaves. A kind of visual and tactile meditation. It’s not about perfection—it’s about being in rhythm with something alive, even if I have no idea what it’s doing.

Climate and seasons are part of it, of course. The garden changes every year whether I like it or not. But I’ve stopped fighting that. These days, I follow the rain instead of the calendar. Let the light decide where the next pot goes. I’ve even started planting by mood. That blue I wait for? It always shows up when I need it.