I’ve accepted a lot of things about myself over the years.
I’m never going to be a morning person. I don’t pretend to understand cryptocurrency. If my printer starts making a weird noise, I’ve already accepted that it’s won. And despite every piece of evidence to the contrary, I continue to believe that buying one more notebook will somehow make me organized.
Now, I have added another one to the list.
I’m not a gardener.
Vegetables? Sure. I can stumble my way through a tomato plant. I’ve grown lettuce. I’ve even managed to produce zucchini that were recognizable as zucchini.
Flowers, though?
Absolutely not.
People who know flowers don’t just plant them. They arrange them. They talk about height, colour, bloom time, sunlight, texture, and words like “thriller,” “filler,” and “spiller.”
I’m sorry… what?
Those sound less like gardening terms and more like the titles of a low-budget action movie.
This week, I found myself standing in the yard with a collection of flowers and a stack of empty pots. Any reasonable person would’ve looked up a guide or asked someone with experience.
Instead, I relied on instinct.
By instinct, I mean I picked one up, looked at it for three seconds, and thought, “Yeah… you’ll probably live here.”
That’s how every decision was made.
This one is purple? Great.
This one is yellow? Sure.
This one is tall? Fantastic. Right in the middle.
I planted flowers with the same strategy I use when loading the dishwasher: put things wherever they fit and hope nobody who knows what they’re doing sees it. I basically decorated the yard the way a toddler decorates a pizza!
The worst part is that I started developing confidence halfway through.
I’d step back, nod thoughtfully, and move a pot six inches to the left like I was hosting my own gardening show.
“Oh yes,” I’d silently tell myself. “That’s much more balanced.”
Balanced against what? I have no idea.
Maybe it’ll all grow together into a beautiful display that people admire as they walk by.
Maybe it’ll look like four completely different gardens that accidentally carpooled.
The flowers don’t know they’re supposed to follow a design, and I certainly don’t.
So we’re just figuring this out together.
If they survive the summer, I’m calling it skill.
If they don’t, we’re going to agree that this was an experimental art installation.
The CJBuzz 