Julia Anderson

When you crush a basil leaf between your palms, the fragrance of summer is released. You're instantly transported to childhood days. My mother grew herbs in dayglo margarine containers on the radiator of our apartment. I'd sneak leaves into my shorts pockets. And today, I run my fingertips across lavender hedges. I scatter calendula seeds in between the cracks of sidewalks. Gardens grow where you commit to them.

Twenty years ago, I buried many tulip bulbs, but not before I watched green shoots coil backward. I had buried the bulbs upside down. A master gardener at one of the farmers' markets set me straight. "Plants want to live," she shrugged. "Help them a little." And now I have a trial of heirloom tomatoes in the soil of a parking strip. I bury banana peels under the rose bushes. And yes, you develop quirks, too – perhaps you'll save eggshells for seedlings to get a jump on stealing from the soil. Maybe even sing to your geraniums.

Tending to your first garden could be radishes grown in a gutter or your jade plant you rescued from a dumpster. Last fall, one of my clients swore her yard was cursed as nothing bloomed one year. We tested the soil. Lead levels were off the charts. We manufactured planters from untreated wood. We filled them with yarrow. With milkweed. Monarchs flock there now. Start small, fail smaller, and let the rest surprise you.