01/02/2026
When I look back on the horticultural therapy classes I’ve offered,
I don’t see a list of activities.
I see moments of presence.
I see hands in soil—sometimes strong, sometimes tentative—finding steadiness through touch.
I see faces soften as scent awakens memory, as leaves and bark and herbs open quiet doors to the past.
I see gratitude being in a safe space.
I see the beautiful mess after class...piles of pinecones, leaves, flowers, soil, herbs, seeds, acorns.
I see smiles and hear laughter (sometimes sadness as beautiful memories return)
I see those with limited physical movements - eyes light up at the scent of lavender.
Each class has been a meeting place:
between people and plants,
between memory and the present moment,
between grief and gentleness,
between isolation and shared experience,
between residents and family members,
between children and their classmates,
between cancer thrivers and their tribe.
I’ve watched participants arrive tired, guarded, or unsure—and leave more settled, more themselves.
Not because anything was fixed,
but because something living was noticed.
Across seasons and settings, the work has taught me this:
healing does not rush.
Nature invites.
The senses remember how to guide us home.
These classes have affirmed my belief that tending a plant is also tending a person—and that even small moments of care, when repeated, become something lasting.
This work continues to grow me as much as it grows others.
Each class is a reminder that connection is not created—it is revealed,
when we slow down. 2026 is the year to slow down
