I’ve worked with a lot of people who relate to their gardens/landscape as a war zone . There are the battles with the weeds, the failing irrigation systems, the bugs, the rabbits, the gophers, the very soil. There are the intolerable leaves that fall so beautifully to the ground. The plant that isn’t quite as pretty as the one seen somewhere else—which is frustrating. The unpicked fruit that’s “not worth it anyway.” The allergens. The artless hacking that ensures ugliness and justifies replacement with something ‘nicer.’ Gawd.

I am deeply sympathetic to the exasperation people experience with gardens. They tell me about it. I’m there to help fix things, but I’ve learned that even when people ask questions, explaining things about plants, or bugs, or soil itself scarcely penetrates. Most of the time we are simply trying to bring garden spaces into line with a vision or concept from something seen elsewhere - not actually trying to learn horticultural science. We hope to get along with general ideas about how things are done, and accept the problems that may go with it.

Social mirroring isn’t ‘bad’. I’ve often noticed that the nicest feeling neighborhoods feel good because there is a certain design continuity that merges into one cohesive PLACE. It promises to simplify life, and yet it’s likely not altogether true, and definitely not here in the high desert where there is such a mismatch between aesthetic norms and environmental reality.

I’m on a mission to get away from all the wasteful grind and frenzy, and I believe it begins with seeing the unique opportunities and aesthetics of our own particular sites.

Native plants are a big part of that, but even more broadly, I think it really helps to shift one’s attention from what’s not working (and maybe letting those things go) towards what is actually working. That’s my big tip. I am trying to make a point out of calling out beautiful or interesting things while in the garden with people. Just that - noticing stuff that’s working. Not only does it help build morale, it slowly opens the door to more interesting and environmentally compatible possibilities. It doesn’t have to be about native plants. I personally love it when it is, but one way or another, you’re nudging toward less cyclical destruction and waste. Like hey, that native four-wing saltbush (what the bleep is that?) is really beautiful in the fall with all those weird chartreuse seed bracts. Can we do something with that? Time it with something that would accentuate that?

As a small example, I’m working on a spring bulb order (in my life, fall means planning for spring; that’s another tip) and I’m making selections based on something I saw last spring in & for the same garden that I love. What I saw was the early crabapple blossom drop spread out across old tulip and daffodil beds. Evidently, my visits hadn’t ever coincided with that event. It was just gorgeous, but perhaps it was more the pumped up version that played out in my head. At the same time in another nearby area, I noticed the sweetest little relic dwarf iris emerging from a bed strewn with dried hawthorn leaves. The subtle textures and colors of all have become inspiration for a planned reboot on that spring garden anchored on two core species that have survived for 15-20 years after initial planting. That’s a pretty good survival rate around here. The following is an image strip to illustrate existing and proposed garden additions: