Eighty Tuesday nights on my therapist's couch after my divorce, now twenty Tuesday nights writing on my porch. Same healing process, different love seat—but I finally crossed the bridge from death to life.
Nature & Reflections
The Oak Tree Fell in February, but I’m the One Who Got Replanted
For months, the hollow oak lay in my backyard—an eyesore, then a barrier, then a mirror. Like that tree, I'd stood tall in Nashville while rotting inside. But somewhere between Syracuse's disposal and Hampton's soil, a seed found new ground.
My Garden Doubled While I Was Gone—So Did Everything Else I’d Been Too Close to See
After a week in Florida, my begonias had doubled, my roses finally bloomed, and my nieces raced to greet me. I'd been so focused on finding a husband through my microscope lens that I missed the garden already growing: new friendships, family love, and a department head position I never sought.
Every Failed First Date is Ground Cover in My Garden—Bok Tower Taught Me Why
At Bok Tower Gardens, hydrangeas reminded me of Kyle, gardenias of Angela, Spanish moss of matching pink bathing suits with Dad. Each plant held a memory. Then I realized: West Virginia boy with the missing tooth is just Firebush—lots of personality, but wrong colors for my garden.
Why I Refuse to Settle: Garden Lessons About Love and Standards
My shade garden taught me about compromise, but when it comes to choosing a husband, I won't settle for pretty ground cover. Here's why being 'picky' in love is actually wise—and why I'm waiting for the flowers.
My 76-Year-Old Neighbor Gardens with a Walker—And Finally Said What I Couldn’t
Mrs. Washington balances her hose in one hand, walker in the other, tending gardens for sixteen years. When she caught my neighbor dumping his yard waste in front of my house, she gave him the riot act I'd been too polite to deliver. Now her marigolds thrive in shade where they shouldn't—maybe there's a lesson there about taking risks on things that don't look perfect on paper.
Grammy’s Morning Glories Opened at Dawn—My Evening Glories Bloom for First Dates
Kneeling in my garden with moonflower seeds, I became my grandmother thirty years later. The packet said 'evening glory,' and suddenly I was watching Grammy's morning glories from her kitchen window. Three days of rain made me lose faith in tiny seeds—but nature was just pre-soaking them the way I couldn't.
Planting Seeds of Hope: What My Garden Taught Me About Dating After Divorce
A friend helped me redesign my failing garden, and suddenly I understood what it really takes to cultivate new love after everything has died.
Why I Ignored the Warning Signs: Learning to Read Life’s Tags
My hanging plants came with clear instructions I ignored, just like the red flags in my marriage. Sometimes love means paying attention to what someone actually needs to thrive.
Two Hanging Plants, Twin Nieces, and the Teenager Buying Boobs for Graduation
One plant thrives, one dies. One twin crawls, one raises her arms. One teenager begs to grow up too fast. I sing 'In The Garden' to my nieces and wonder: am I the dying plant or the late-blooming azalea?
Writer's Growth 