Living Alongside Failure

And other lessons from the garden.

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(The Mini Meadow Experiment: Year Three)

In 2023 I launched into a mini-meadow project on a large, unused piece of grassy land in my yard. I was inspired to create a beautiful and wild native plant haven for pollinators and other wildlife. One that could bring beauty to my own world, and maybe even some for my family and the neighbors who regularly pass by. So I went to classes, talked to experts, read books and articles. I researched methods and processes and created an actionable plan that took months to carry out.

The experts in my community who've successfully created pollinator corridors gave me encouraging words — words I've lived by since.

"The first year it sleeps. The second year it creeps. The third year it leaps."

It's played over in my head like a song each passing season. A promise for all the hours and hope I put into the project from the very first day the vision took root in my mind.

And so it was. The first year, it did sleep. There was moderate growth and promising signs of new life. The second year it did creep with bursts of new color and the plant life I was waiting to see. Meanwhile, my anticipation for what was to come grew more and more. I could picture myself, coffee in hand, strolling through the pathways I created specifically for wandering — towering plants that began from tiny seeds and the buzz of life all around me in a space I created from nothing.

Then early spring year three arrived. The demands of life and parenting kept me distracted and in autopilot. Unlike every year prior, I didn't tend, I didn't wander, I didn't enjoy — I often just glanced out my bedroom window to check on progress. But the grand opening never arrived. And the waiting continued. Maybe there would be late bloomers — maybe the plant varieties were more likely to show in early summer? Then, late summer? What growth did exist was sparse and lackluster.

As August came and went, I realized (and then had to accept) — it didn't work. The experiment floundered. There was no leap, just an anticlimactic flop.

I've replayed these last months considering what went wrong. Should I have been more engaged during the early growing season looking for signs of despair? Should I have mowed it all down last fall to help generate new growth? Did the deer feast too heavily on baby plants before I could come up with a solution to protect them? Maybe I accidentally removed new growth those couple of days I was trying to clear out the invasive plants that found their way in. Too much heat? Too much rain? Not enough?

I honestly can't say for sure.

But one thing I do know is that failure doesn't mean finished.

Nature has the loveliest and purest way of forgiving us when it receives the slightest bit of love and reciprocation. So now, I'm thinking of ways to help reset the balance in the meadow. I know that with some careful observation, new techniques, patience and attention, it will get to that leap eventually.

Until then, when I look out my window for the remainder of this season, I'm left with the view of what didn't work, and a humbling reminder of what I'm grateful for: nature can be a profound life compass.

One of the things I love most about gardening is that it is about a love and appreciation for the process — because the process never ends. If it did, there would be nothing left to enjoy. The slow acts of pausing, noticing and nurturing make all the difference in how well a garden thrives. A poetic lesson we can all take a cue from.

Paths to success look different for everyone. Usually you have to make and learn from your own mistakes to have the information you need to know where to go next with something. This project needed my engagement and attention as much as I needed its. Both would have faired better along the way. I know better now.

So, disappointingly, the meadow never leaped in year three. But maybe the experiment still had its successes after all...

—Jill Span Hofbauer