Your Space. Your Choice.
Planting a garden that defies the tidy rules of suburban landscaping is a radical act—where space is limited and every choice must be deliberate. It’s downright subversive to choose unruly vines, oddly shaped blooms, or anything that dares to spill beyond the mulch borders. But even rebellion requires foresight. You have to think ahead—because what starts as a charming little seedling can one day take over the whole yard.
I once dreamed of planting a towering, soil-gobbling, nut-throwing pecan tree right in the center of my third-acre plot. My husband was more than a little relieved when I finally admitted I’d be doing the tree a disservice by trying to grow something so expansive within the confines of our picket fence.
Choosing what you want to grow because it fits your unique needs, space and skill is an act of self-governance. Think of the rooftop gardens in the city, a sunny kitchen window lined with herbs, or the backyard pond covered in lilies. Or, like me, the peach tree I planted fully knowing it would feed birds and squirrels more than me.
Cultivating your environment, be it physical or emotional, is not just about plants. It’s about building a life on your own terms.
We get to choose what stays and what goes in the spaces around us.
Maybe we let the wild things grow—the ones that wander and climb where they please. I happen to love the invasive, insistent nature of vines. I love how mischievous and uncontrollable they can be. Maybe we make space for the quirky blooms, the ones that don’t line up in tidy rows but make us smile just the same. We plant what feeds us. What soothes us. What smells like home.
Sometimes, we plant things simply because we long for them to thrive. For me, it’s been lupine. Three tries, three fails. Not because it’s out of its zone, but because my way of gardening, and the space I have, just doesn’t suit it. I’m learning to accept that some ideas aren’t meant to bloom in my garden.
And at times, we grow things because they’re beautiful. Because beauty, too, has a purpose.
When I moved to Virginia, I craved pieces of home around me. There’s a seductive scent to the Georgia air that I couldn’t bear to live without. So in my yard now you’ll find wisteria draped like old lace, a single teddy bear magnolia standing proud in the corner, muscadine vines stretching into summer, gardenias scenting the breeze, and a fig tree that reminds me of slow, barefoot afternoons on my uncle’s expansive (non-suburban) land.
I planted them not just for what they give, but for what they remember. These are the roots I chose to carry. My memory keepers. My tether to the people and places who made me.
Tending your own space—garden or otherwise—is a way of claiming your life with joy and intention. You grow what you need. What you love. What amuses you and what teaches you. And on occasion, something blooms that someone else didn’t even know they needed to see.
