Reflections, lessons and unexpected teachers

As I look back on the growing season of 2025, it’s hard not to feel the weight of what the land went through. Leatherjackets (the larvae of crane flies) made themselves far too comfortable across the beds, quietly feeding on roots beneath the surface. By the time the damage revealed itself, most crops had already surrendered. Seedlings vanished, roots were severed, and whole rows failed before they truly began.

It was a year that tested patience, optimism, and every assumption I thought I had about resilience in the garden. Nearly everything struggled. Nearly everything failed. And still, the field had something to teach.

And not just the field; I had learning to do as well.

In the collapse of my usual “achievements,” something unexpected appeared: time.Time to rest. Time to breathe. Time to step back and check in with the bigger-picture vision I’d been too busy to truly see. For so long I had kept my head down- weeding, planting, harvesting and reacting that I hadn’t looked up to notice what was quietly flourishing all around me.

When the land forced me to pause, I finally saw it.

We had real trees that had now grown up and were casting actual shade and abundant harvests for the first time.The pond was absolutely teeming with wildlife - a whole ecosystem taking hold.The young hedges were rooting deeply, growing strong.And the community I had dreamed of was no longer a distant hope; it was already here, alive in the many people who came to stay, to help, to share meals, to tend the land with their hands and their hearts.

2025 humbled me, but it also softened me.It reminded me that my value isn’t tied to my output.It doesn’t shrink when crops fail, or when I don’t produce what I think I “should,” or even when I simply need to rest. The land rests, and still holds its worth. So do I. So do we all.

And so, turning into the new year, there is a quiet confidence in beginning again.

Bed One for 2026 has already been planted with garlic — a crop that feels symbolic as much as practical. Garlic asks for patience, for trust through the cold months, for faith that what sits unseen through winter will eventually push its green blades into the light again. Planting it felt like drawing a line between what was and what will be. A simple, hopeful beginning.

2026 will be a fresh chapter. The soil has been tended. The lessons, both from the land and from within, have been absorbed. The beds will be rebuilt, one by one. And though the memory of 2025 will linger as both warning and teacher, it will not define what grows next.

Here’s to healthier soil, stronger roots, deeper rest, and a season shaped not by setbacks but by renewal.

Here’s to a new beginning.