Learning to See the Future

Some mornings the garden changes. Other mornings, the gardener does.

Friends,

There wasn’t any school this week, so after CrossFit I found myself doing what has become one of my favorite parts of the morning—a slow walk through the garden.

The Lemon Drop had settled in nicely. The blackberries were still producing. The last of the green plums had finally been picked, and the peaches were beginning to blush. The kumquat, after finally receiving the irrigation it had been asking for, was covered in new buds. The Jewels of Opar seemed happier every time I walked by. Apples are beginning to ripen. Grapes have finally started turning from green to shades of purple. Buckwheat, pawpaws, sapote, tomatoes, corn, and the zinnias all seem to have found their rhythm.

Not everything is thriving.

One blueberry is making a remarkable comeback after I accidentally neglected it long enough for every leaf to fall off. I had all but written it off. Now tiny new leaves are quietly proving me wrong.

Another blueberry wasn’t so lucky. During transplanting I damaged much of its root system. It’s hanging on, but just barely. Every morning I find myself looking for one more sign that it still wants to stay.

Gardens have a way of reminding us that success and struggle are usually growing side by side.

This week I also planted a white guava.

A year ago I probably would have been thinking mostly about the tree itself. Will it survive? How much fruit will it produce? How long until I can harvest my first guava?

Now I find myself looking upward instead.

The guava sits beneath the filbert. Nearby are the papaya, the dwarf peach, and the autumn olive. Someday they’ll all share the same space, creating a layered canopy that offers shade, habitat, and food for everything growing beneath them.

I’m not planting individual trees anymore.

I’m planting relationships.

That shift has shown up somewhere else, too.

I’ve started carrying my camera through the garden again.

Photography has always been part of my life, but I’m realizing I’m approaching it differently now. Instead of looking for something pretty to photograph, I’m trying to capture a story.

The photograph at the top of this article isn’t really about a guava tree.

It’s about a young tree reaching toward a future canopy. It’s about the relationship between the guava, the filbert above it, the papaya nearby, and the space they’re slowly growing into together. It’s about imagining what this little corner of the garden might become five or ten years from now.

So bear with me as I learn this new skill.

As Tree Sprites continues to grow, I’d love for these photographs to become more than snapshots of our garden. I hope they begin telling the stories hidden inside it—the relationships, the rhythms, and the quiet transformations that are so easy to walk past without noticing.

Tomorrow morning I’ll probably wander back out with my camera.

The blueberries will still be writing their own stories.

The guava will still be reaching toward the future.

The zinnias will still be inviting every bee and butterfly that passes by.

And the garden will keep teaching me how to see.

Until next time, friends,

Teacher Todd