Lavender. An unassuming star of our gardens. Star in the sense that it needs little water, has a lovely foliage color, and grows well in a relaxed sort of way. Nothing showy, but once in the ground almost every plant becomes a mainstay, luxuriating in its surroundings, adapting, almost going wild. I love them. There’s a really large one beneath the big oaks, two in the beds along the front porch, and three of them, in the flower bed off the southern porch.

The ones in the back are the newest arrivals, planted last spring during a vigorous redo of the garden where I put down heavy weed barrier and mulched it all to a fair thee well. They’re in a thin section of the garden where many previous plantings of different species had gone to die. These three plants, however, are booming and blooming even as we speak, and I have no doubt that at some point they’ll blend together to look as one. That will be a sweet day.

I wonder sometimes about the satisfaction I find when a plant joins the garden and I know it’s happy to be there. It feels personal even though it’s hardly the case. It’s simply a matter of soil, and water, and sun. But when the plants go in the ground by my hand and then thrive it feels as though every lush leaf and beautiful flower is smiling at me in thanks. As I write that, it feels a bit pathetic, as if I’m starved for affection. But that might be harsh. I think it’s more likely I’m simply feeling the blush of pleasure that comes from bringing life and beauty into the world, even if its only in a tiny garden, in a tiny corner, of a really big world, and seen mostly by me.

John W. Wilson is the author of The Long Goodbye: A Caregiver’s Tale