Every garden is a love letter.

Some are elegies to the past, some call in future dreams, all while affirming the present here and now. 

A love letter to childhood is a celebratory impetus for garden making. We love to provide kids safe, inviting outdoor experiences while remembering all users, today and tomorrow. How can play equipment be designed in ways to evolve with the growing needs of the kids? It is an honor to make gardens for young families, finding balance between serving the energy release of the kiddos and the rest and recharge needs of the parents.

After profound hardship, loss, grief, or disappointment, gardens are one of the sacred places people turn, often unspoken, sometimes subconscious. My garden called Impossible Garden was an active altar for my own fertility journey, twin practices of surrender. A dear friend planted a weeping cherry tree after losing her daughter the day of childbirth. Countless cousins, aunts, and great grandmothers buried their placentas or scattered the ashes of many a beloved at the roots of wild roses and trees. A sanctum where we continue to tend our relationships with those past or unrealized timelines.

Visceral and spiritual—terrene and celestial—the garden helps us mark, process, and alchemize nearly unmetabolizable experiences into beauty and new life.

A garden is a soul project. It is a call and response, a back and forth conversation, love letters. There is a special transmutation in developing and maintaining an ongoing relationship with a piece of earth over time. Just as much as we shape our gardens, they shape us. Like all worthwhile relationships, you sift, sort, choose, grow, fail, adapt. Out of service to you both, out of love for the continual becoming of garden and gardener. There is always next season.