Field Note: The Garden That Held Me While I Healed AKA It didn’t go as planned

It didn’t begin as a plan.

And it didn’t go as planned either when i did try to map things out.

I didn’t map it out on paper or sketch it into something orderly. I tried.
But it grew the way healing grows— anyway —
in pieces, in instincts, in small decisions made on ordinary days.

A plant here.
A clearing there.
A path worn simply by walking it enough times.

And then one day, I stepped back and realized—

It wasn’t just a garden.

It was a map of me.

There is a maze garden—
not perfect, not symmetrical,
but winding in a way that asks you to slow down,
to turn, to reconsider, to trust that you will find your way through.

I didn’t take a straight path in my healing.
I circled.
I paused.
I doubled back.
And still—I arrived somewhere softer.

There is a kitchen garden—
mint, thyme, basil, things that can be touched, torn, tasted.

This is where I learned to nourish again.
Not in theory, but in practice.
Feeding my body, my children, my days.

Simple things.
Alive things.

There is a bar garden—
unexpected, a little playful.

A place for garnish and sparkle,
for a sprig of something fragrant in a glass,
for the reminder that life is not only survival.

There is pleasure here.
There is choice.

There is the porch garden—
the in-between space.

Where I sit.
Where I breathe.
Where I do nothing that needs to be measured or improved.

Just presence.
Just being.

And there is the butterfly garden—
color, movement, return.

Things come and go here.
Nothing is forced to stay.
And still, life arrives.

Again and again.

It wraps around my home, this garden.

Not as a wall—
but as a living boundary.

A quiet declaration:

Here, things are tended.
Here, things are allowed to grow.
Here, things are not taken without care.

It has bells that move with the wind.
Birds that come and go without asking.
Scents that rise in the heat of the day.
Color that shifts with the light.
Softness under hand, under foot.

Everything I needed—
I made space for.

The only thing it lacks is running water.

Movement you can hear.
A current that continues whether I am watching or not.
A sound that says:

Things are still flowing.
Things are still moving forward.

That will come next.

Because that’s how this has all worked.

Not finished.
Not perfected.
Just… continued.

I didn’t set out to build a sanctuary.

But I did.

And now when I step outside,
I don’t have to wonder if I’ve healed.

I can see it.

Growing.

I’m healing. Not healed. Healing. Just as the garden is growing. Not grown. Not complete. Ever growing.