Read by Matilda Longbottom

Garden journaling is best left to gardeners who are far more methodical than I. I’m sure the meticulous records they keep serve some practical purpose, but I can’t imagine how I’d use them. Sure, I forget where I’ve planted bulbs—who doesn’t? And yes, I lose track of color schemes and plant pairings. Should I map out a master garden plan? Perhaps. Would it help if I labeled plants in both the ground and my non-existent journal? Almost certainly.

But let’s be honest: I’m not that kind of gardener. I prefer to rely on luck, whimsy, and the sheer delight of surprise. Forgotten bulbs poking through the soil? A gift from my past self. Plants haphazardly growing together in unexpected harmony? A stroke of good fortune. My garden philosophy is simple: happiness is finding joy in the way the garden grows, not in how it’s planned.

I don’t crave the precision of straight rows or the rigidity of manicured lawns. Instead, I lean into the charm of chaos—long grasses swaying over hard edges, pots overflowing with greenery, and bushes left untamed to grow however the sun and soil dictate. My suburban lot, hemmed in by neighbors, fences, and city codes, is a controlled wilderness.

From the outside, mature trees and untrimmed bushes obscure my home. But from inside my Eichler-designed sanctuary, floor-to-ceiling windows transform every room into a viewing gallery of my garden’s wonders. The garden isn’t just outside—it’s an integral part of my living space. Birds flit among the bushes just inches from the glass, while the light dances through leaves, illuminating my rooms with ever-changing shadows.

If I were to keep a garden journal, its pages would overflow with stories of wildlife. Which berry-laden bushes attract migrating birds? Which flowers draw bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds? I’d document nests built, spiders spinning webs, and the awe-inspiring comings and goings of life.

But honestly, who has time for all that? I’d rather immerse myself in the unfolding drama than write it down. The garden, after all, is a world unto itself, too vast and alive to be contained within the pages of any journal. ❖

About the Author: Writing has been a lifelong habit for Jaci Hall, beginning in third grade when she wrote plays for her class’s papier-mâché puppets. She continued crafting stories and plays for her students throughout her 32-year public school teaching career and has kept writing ever since. She is often told that her Holiday Newsletter has become something of a collector’s item.