The first flower garden I planted was in college, where my roommate and I tucked a couple of zinnias and cosmos into a tiny bed outside our front door. There were a few years after that where I was garden-less. But even in our tiny apartment in Seattle, after just getting married, I had red geraniums on our window ledge.
Our first home was in Eastern Washington, where we moved into a brand new house with no lawn or garden. That first spring a co-worker brought me a couple of huge black garbage bags full of plants her grandmother had dug up for me. I had no idea what I was doing or even what I was planting. I just started.
When we packed up and moved to our home in Western Washington, we bought a home with a large and very established garden. Full of beautiful azaleas and rhododendrons, it looked like a park during the springtime. But after they were done blooming the color was gone. Again, I set out to bring in some flowers. I scrounged around for plants, taking divisions from anyone who was willing to share. Throughout our 30+ years there, as flower beds overflowed, new beds were dug. When we moved last fall, I left it all behind, taking with me two roses and one hosta.
It has been a wonderful diversion to have a new garden to discover. Walking the beds lasts fall, after we moved in, I recognized many of the plants but could only guess at the colors. As spring has started to gently move into summer and things have really started to bloom, I eagerly watch as the garden come to life. The color pallet is different from any of the other gardens I have tended. This one full of deep shades of pink, purple and yellow.
I have moved a few things around and ventured out to the garden center just once, because in my mind a garden has to have a couple of daisy patches. But the pandemic has forced me to just sit back and see what is here. To allow this garden to speak to me, sharing her colors and beauty before I go mucking things up and bringing in new companions.
Which we all know I will do.