Our family spring break was spent in Moab, Utah, scrambling up the ancient sandstone at Arches and seeing 200-million-year-old dinosaur footprints. The deserts out West are one of my favorite places to vacation: wild and weird and utterly foreign to this midwesterner.
The weekend after we returned, I headed down to Matthiessen State Park with some girlfriends. Being back in the Midwest, walking through the simple, quiet and lovely woods, streams and bluffs, I was reminded that while I love spending time in deserts and mountains, this is the kind of nature where I feel most at home. It’s the opposite of vast; it’s cozy and comforting. It also reminded me how easy it is to take our abundance of trees and water for granted.
My stroll through Matthiessen gave me plenty of garden inspiration too. Native spring ephemerals were popping up all over the forest floor: Spring Beauties, Trout Lilies and Mayapples galore. Signs of life pushing up through layers of fallen leaves. I immediately started plotting which ones to put in my yard, so I could experience them each spring, closer to home.
Native gardening connects us with what lived on this land before we took it over. This whole region was once Illinois prairie and oak woodland. We built over it. It’s a small, stubborn attempt to bring some of that back in the patches we have left. The soil in your yard isn’t prairie soil; it’s been through a lot. But the right native in the right spot will find its way.
I am not a natural gardener. One section of my yard was designed and installed by professionals and is, as a result, thriving: an inspiration for the rest of my work-in-progress yard. The sections I “designed” and “installed” myself (scare quotes intentional) are more of a mixed bag. My first planting season I buy plants that look pretty in the pictures and plop them into empty spots, not remotely considering sun, shade, soil or bloom time. I now see my garden beds as my own little personal biodiversity lab. I spend spring and early summer experimenting with new plants, fighting off the bunnies and seeing what sticks. The following spring I realize I have completely forgotten what I planted (attention to detail is not my strong suit), which means I get to re-learn my garden every year.
It’s an investment in the future, definitely not a path to immediate gratification. It rewards patience but also sets me up for surprises. Every spring it’s fun to reconnect with my kooky garden. I mourn what was lost, celebrate what came back and figure out what to try next. Every year, more and more bees and butterflies visit our yard, to the delight of our kids.
I’m proud to live in a community where native gardening is a norm, not an exception. Neighbors share plants on Facebook, the West Cook Wild Ones sale is a highlight of my spring calendar, and my best garden education comes from walking the neighborhood with a plant ID app.
We shouldn’t have to go far to find nature that feels like home. But we can build it ourselves, one yard at a time.