Paul Reynolds

There's something primitive about digging your hands into the soil. It grounds you. Twenty years ago, I stood in a single rust patch of dirt behind an old rental house in Birmingham. I planted marigolds. They died. Then, zucchini sprawled everywhere, taking up all available space. Due to a very frank reminder, gardening will humble you quickly. Here I am, planting rose bushes at 6 a.m. in a ground nest bed made from discarded lumber on the construction lot next door, teaching my kid to distinguish between aphids and ladybugs before they devastate the lettuce plants while I harvest herbs. My point is you start where you are.

In my early approach to gardening, I attempted to grow orchids since their fussiness was like a tugged string, reeling me in. Orchids became an obsession; I felt compelled to keep a greenhouse journal to track the humidity like a local meteorologist. One frigid winter, the power went out for over 24 hours, freezing half of my collection. The surviving orchids? They were just the ones I had neglected the most. They were survivors who adapted to the stress of neglect. Now, I am pushing plants to their limits; I'm testing drought tolerance, and I get to know just how many herbs will bolt in a shaded area. I've also realized through gardening practice that you will learn far more from your failures than what you are told in a guide.

Gardens act like life; often unpredictable, erratic, personal, and as much work as it takes to reap the benefit of enjoying. Last summer, some rabbits discovered my bean seedlings and did what rabbits do. However, I replanted the beans and dropped some nasturtiums in like decoys. The beans took off, and now the neighbor wants to know how to "rabbit-proof" her garden. Celebrate your pride! Happy! Disappointment! The cracked old terra cotta pot? Plant mint in it – it'll spread anyway. Please comment below and tell me what you are growing this season! Even if it is only chives in a coffee can.