What began as a quest to protect her tomatoes turned into something much bigger for writer; an ongoing education in ecology, wonder and interconnectedness
Ode to Momma Rekola -- a lifetime gardener and quiet observer of nature, whose hands and heart taught me to see the wonder in every leaf, bird and bloom.
When I sit with her, I remember to slow down, to watch, and to notice. And that's when the rest of the teachers begin to reveal themselves.
When I step into the garden, I'm stepping into a classroom. A fusion of ecological retreat and open-air science lab: that's how I've come to think of my patch of earth. And the longer I stay on my knees in the dirt, the more I realize I am surrounded by lessons waiting to be learned.
"Look at me, and all that I can teach you," croaks a frog from the edge of the pond. The chipmunk stuffing his cheeks with sunflower seeds nods in agreement, while the bees hover over zinnias, cosmos and sedums in bloom. Even the squirrels -- mischievous as they are -- belong here as part of the curriculum. Some of my most enduring teachers are furred, feathered or scaled, reminding me daily that knowledge is not confined to books.
The whodunit of gardening
I'll admit, I didn't always see my garden this way. Once upon a season, I was just a frustrated gardener desperate to know: Who is eating my tomatoes? Chipmunks? Raccoons? Some midnight thief with paws and a taste for red fruit?
So began my crash course in field forensics looking for every possible clue -- chew patterns, tracks, even scat. It was a game of whodunit that left me not just protecting tomatoes but discovering a hidden web of interconnection. Each mystery led me deeper: to soil organisms, predator-prey cycles, unglamorous but vital details.
I realized the garden wasn't simply a battleground of gardener versus pest. It was a living lab, a nonstop seminar on ecology.
Crawling around with curiosity
I never studied science deeply in school, but the garden has been my generous substitute teacher. Alongside the expected harvests -- asparagus spears, juicy tomatoes -- it's offered me surprise electives in botany, ornithology, entomology, and geology. I've learned more about insects by crouching beside a milkweed patch than I ever did in a classroom.
Small milkweed bugs cluster on the brittle pods of last season's milkweed. They're not pests, but part of the milkweed community, sharing space with monarchs, beetles and aphids. Their bold colours serve as a warning to predators: Don't eat me.
And then there's the soundscape -- I couldn't have told you the difference between a katydid, a cricket or a grasshopper before the garden pulled me aside and whispered their distinct songs into my ears.
Now those rhythms blend with bird calls.
One morning, a peeping call led me to the parsley planter, where a tiny Eastern Phoebe had tumbled inside. I gave a helping hand back to the nest, and within moments the parents returned, feeding and fussing as if nothing had happened.
I stood in awe.
Lessons from the teepee
Sometimes the best way to listen is simply to sit still. From my teepee -- a handmade hideaway of poles and twine -- the garden carries on around me.
Just beyond, the old apple tree leans heavy with age, its bark cracked and limbs worn. But at the base, a fresh green shoot pushes upward, stubborn and full of life. Proof that even as one life fades, another begins.
Above me, the birdhouse gourds sway in the breeze. I hung them last season from the teepee frame and the apple branches and the wrens moved in right away. They stuffed the gourds with twigs, filled the garden with their bubbly chatter, and raised their broods in those hollow shells.
From my seat, I watched them come and go -- some of my most animated, joyful teachers.
House wren in birdhouse gourd.
On my cutleaf sumac, I once mistook the strange swellings for fruit -- they looked like clusters of tiny pears hanging from the branches.
But a closer look revealed they weren't fruit at all, they were galls, each one a hollow chamber made by the sumac gall aphid.
On closer observation -- and after a bit of digging into field guides -- I learned something remarkable. Those strange galls on my sumac aren't the whole story. To survive, the aphids that create them actually need moss as their winter home. When the sumac drops its leaves, it can no longer support them, so the aphids shift to moss -- a safe, moist shelter where tiny males and females are produced to restart the cycle come spring.
This alternating rhythm, called alternation of generations, is the key to their survival. Without moss, the story couldn't continue.
Bonus: The galls even feed the web, offering shelter for insects and snacks for birds.
A leopard frog blends into the garden bed -- an indicator species showing that the water quality and land is healthy.
A garter snake finds refuge in the stumpery -- a reminder that decay shelters life and keeps the garden in balance.
Science, spirit and wonder
If you stay long enough in a garden, you realize it isn't just about producing food or flowers -- it's about cultivating wonder.
The garden proves this to me every single day.
In the end, the garden isn't just about harvests or pretty flowers. It's about relationships -- some obvious, some mysterious, all essential. The more I notice, the more I learn. And the more I learn, the more I feel a kind of quiet joy -- that I belong here, hitched to everything else.
Don't just tend your garden; let it tend to you.
Monika Rekola is a certified landscape designer and horticulturist, passionate about gardening, sustainable living and the great outdoors. Contact her at [email protected].Monika Rekola is a certified landscape designer and horticulturist, passionate about gardening, sustainable living and the great outdoors. Contact her at [email protected].