Lessons from a Garden: Lesson 1

 

As winter finally began to recede and the first hints of spring teased our five-acre woods, Paul and I sat down with a blank piece of paper and a mountain of hope. We were staring down Year Three of Little Village Hosta Farm, and we had big, exciting, sprawling goals.

We were going to grow our customer base, skyrocket our social media presence, and seamlessly branch out into Instagram, Pinterest, and YouTube. We were going to document the long-awaited rehabilitation of my mother’s gardens, starting with that first sacred plot. We signed up to speak at the Hosta Convention in Madison this September. We planned to hit the local farmers' markets, scout out new flea markets, start this very blog, and continuously support our customers with every ounce of plant wisdom we possessed. Alongside all of it, we committed to constantly expanding our own learning about hostas, perennials, and the ever-evolving world of plants.

We wrote it all down. And then, we set out to conquer it.

Now, here we are on the heels of the Fourth of July. The hostas are in their full, magnificent summer glory, and yet, looking back at that spring list, a familiar heavy feeling crept into my chest. While we checked off some major milestones—the blog is alive, our Facebook family is growing, and the convention prep is underway—several of those goals remain untouched. We haven’t hit the flea markets. The YouTube channel isn't where I thought it would be.

I found myself looking at the uncheck-marked boxes and feeling that old, sharp sting of disappointment. I should be further along, I told myself.

But as I stood out in the shade garden, watching the slow, unhurried unfurling of a giant blue hosta leaf, I realized this is a pattern I have carried with me my entire life.

The Weight of the Unwritten List

Before the nursery took over my heart, my life was consumed by literacy leadership in schools. I loved my work deeply, but it meant I was busy all the time. There was always a mountain of educational plans to write, professional development to prepare, or school data coming home with me in my bag. Whenever a school break approached, I would promise myself, This is it. This is when I catch up on my life.

I would write an impossibly long laundry list of home chores and muster up every ounce of sheer determination to conquer it. It was a completely unrealistic list. By the time the break was only halfway through, the anxiety would set in. I would literally start sweating over the remaining bullet points. The unfinished tasks hung over my head like a storm cloud, ruining the peace of the entire vacation.

On the very last day before heading back to school, I’d rush around frantically, desperately trying to cross just one more thing off. It didn't matter if I had actually accomplished twenty other things; my eyes and my heart were drawn exclusively to the undone items. I went back to work feeling like I failed.

I never learned my lesson back then. And clearly, as I looked at our business goals this July, I realized I am still fighting that same urge to measure my self-worth by a checklist.

Growing Through the Barriers

The truth is, life does not happen in a vacuum, and gardens do not grow overnight. We carry invisible weights that the checklist fails to account for.

For me, one of those weights is ADHD. It is a constant, daily battle. In my education career, people would often say, "You don't have ADHD, you're too good at your job!" What they didn't see was the power of hyperfocus. I had thirty years to master literacy leadership; I had streamlined it, and my brain found it deeply motivating. But when it comes to things I haven't mastered yet, or the mundane tasks that don't offer that spark of motivation, my brain can easily wander. I can do 80% of the dishes, and suddenly walk away from the sink because my mind simply moved on without completing the job. It is a massive barrier to completing structured goals, and it takes a lot of energy to fight it every day.

My body also demanded a slower pace this season. My back went out, my knees have been giving me trouble, and I’ve spent the last three months in physical therapy just trying to rebuild muscle and heal. I am doing the right things—including starting a GLP-1 journey that has helped me shed 25 pounds so far—but physical healing, much like a root system establishing itself in tough clay, is slow going.

And then, there is the beautiful, heavy reality of the people who need me.

This summer, I am still providing reading intervention to 22 children. Someone needs to teach our children to read, and it is a gift I am so grateful to share. Seeing the look of pure triumph on a child's face when decoding becomes effortless and their fluency rate picks up is the exact reason I still do it.

At home, my heart and time are invested in the family I care for. I am actively working with the Department of Vocational Rehabilitation to help my autistic son, who graduated last year, find meaningful employment. My father-in-law, Ed, lives with us now. He has diabetes and a little dementia, meaning that managing his medication, checking his blood sugars, and preparing proper meals sits permanently at the very top of my daily priority list. Furthermore, I have guardianship of my nephew, who also has autism and is currently in a supported living environment. Ensuring he has everything he needs means attending his quarterly meetings and staying closely in touch with his dedicated team regarding his goals and living conditions.

When I lay it all out, I realize: I am not being lazy. I am not sitting around twiddling my thumbs. I just have a beautifully full plate.

Shifting the Scope: The Joy List

So, what do we do when the summer is half gone and the list is half done?

We have to practice grace. We have to look at ourselves in the mirror, accept a realistic set of expectations, and understand that hiccups in the road are not detours—they are just part of the journey. The world will not end if a task goes unfinished. Missing a goal does not make you a failure; it just makes you human.

If I could go back to my younger teacher self, sweating over a clipboard on her summer break, I would tell her to change the way she writes lists.

Lists shouldn’t just be a harsh roll-call of chores, tasks, and obligations. They need to include the joyful things, too. From now on, I am giving myself permission to put fun items on my task list. It could be something I’ve never done before, or something simple that I’ve always loved and want to do again—like sitting quietly on the porch with a cup of coffee just watching the birds, or spending a few hours at a local pond fishing and reflecting on nature.

If we finish the joyful items on our list, we have to learn to call the day a resounding success, even if the dishes are only 80% done.

Like the perennials in our shade beds, we cannot force ourselves to bloom out of season. You can plant a root, water it perfectly, and stare at the soil all day, but that hosta is going to unfurl its leaves according to nature's clock, not yours. It respects its own limits, resting deep in the dark earth until it has the strength to rise.

Plants don't check a calendar, and they don't experience guilt when they take longer to flower than the one planted next to them. They simply follow a rhythm that honors their survival. We must learn to grant ourselves that same quiet dignity. We have to stop measuring our lives by rigid, artificial deadlines and instead accept a realistic timeline that accounts for our own seasons of healing, caregiving, and rest.

So take a deep breath, grant yourself a little grace, and cross off something joyful today. Trust that you are exactly where you need to be, and that all things will bloom beautifully in their own due time.