"Where Things Begin to Stir"
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how greenhouses hold things not quite ready for the outside world. Not fully grown, not entirely dormant. Just… becoming. That’s where I am right now. A little warm space somewhere inside me is stirring, not loudly, but persistently.
Outside, the garden is starting to stretch. The catmint is waking up in soft lavender tufts, and the salvia is putting out its second flush of new leaves. I walk the garden in the quiet hours of the morning like it might tell me something about myself. Sometimes it does.
I planted a few things recently are coneflowers, Russian Sage - ‘Denim n’ Lace’ , yarrow. Drought-tolerant, sun-hungry, and strangely resilient. They remind me of the version of myself I’m still trying to become. One with roots deep enough to withstand what the world throws at her. One who blooms even when the soil’s been dry for a while.
Some days I wonder if tending the garden is a way to tend the parts of me that still feel unsure. Like I can dig out some of the doubt, water a little confidence, deadhead the fear. There’s comfort in the slowness. In knowing that nothing has to bloom all at once.
Lately, I sit with my dog while the light fades and remind myself: this small life, this quiet work, is still becoming something. I don’t know what yet. But I believe it’s growing in the right direction.
May you find something blooming in you, too. Even if it’s still hidden under the soil.
About me:
I’m Lily Hawthorne — a writer, cook, and gardener creating a life shaped by flavor, fragrance, and feeling. I share citrus-glazed recipes, seasonal rituals, and reflections from the kitchen, garden, and home. This space is still growing, just like me — and I’m so glad you’re here to see it unfold.
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