Three years ago, we left the city after 25 years and moved to a beautiful home — my dream home — in the far suburbs.

And, there it began.

I, quite literally, dug in.

If there was empty space, I filled it. If it was ugly, I dug it out. If it was beautiful, I planted it. If it died, I tried something else.

What I didn't know, I Googled. Or asked my mother-in-law.

I joined the garden club. Those women know everything.

And I planted. And planted. And planted.

If my family cannot find me, I'm out in the yard. I don't take my cell phone. They've learned to yell for me.

My wonderful neighbors, fortunately, did not force me to keep to the property lines. Plants and flowers were allowed to flow like moving streams between us. (I'm blessed that they indulge me.)

Like all new endeavors (occupying hours, days, weeks) this one has yielded some wisdom:

Gardening is physical, exhausting, dirty –and exhilarating – work.
One cannot imagine the hatred that one can muster for a garden hose.
Soil smells like hope.
A plant emerging from the earth after winter feels like a miracle. And a victory.
Good Lord, I love worms.
Few things bring me greater satisfaction than popping a grub between my (garden gloved) fingers.
One can bury a lot of problems in the dirt.
Beauty and color and wonder – Thank you, God.
Roses are worth the trouble. And the thorns.
Despite fertilizers, watering, spraying, pruning and praying...gardening, mostly, is coming to terms with this: sometimes, only time will tell.

A few months ago, I asked the neighbors on our north side if I could, possibly, meander toward their side a bit. And, in about a month, this

Turned to this:

and to this...

I envision it flower-covered, picturesque and lovely. But, alas, it's still very new and there's still much to do.
Like so many things: only time will tell.
I'll post updates.
In the meantime, for those of you waiting to hear back from that agent or editor... waiting for your book to hit the shelves, waiting for that big break:
Patience, friends.