Where we live, wildlife visits often. A family of deer grazes near the fence. Foxes slip through at night. The groundhog, Phil, and the squirrel, Tanjiro, keep digging into my flower pots. The hummingbird, named TBA: The Beautiful Avian, hovers by my balcony.

I absolutely love living close to wild nature, and I love our garden, but this is a rental house, so the backyard is not really mine. In fact, I don’t even have direct access to the backyard because we live on the second floor.

My gardening efforts are quite limited. Our landlord prefers a neat, manicured lawn, just grass and order. In fact, she hired landscapers to keep everything tidy. We try to catch the landscapers every week before they mow down the tiny wildflowers trying to grow.

I don't blame the landlord. She’s pragmatic, and probably burned out from being responsible for too many properties. She doesn’t have time to think about the little bees, birds, caterpillars and butterflies that depend on wildflowers to survive.

But I grow what I can, without permission.

I have my flowers on my little balcony.

I have my yellow rose in the front yard, which had to be replanted there because Tanjiro the squirrel would not leave it alone on the balcony.

In the backyard I have my overgrown tomatoes, cucumbers and my favorite, the milkweed bush.

I chose to grow milkweed intentionally.

Milkweed is native to where I live. It’s graceful, generous, and humble, yet it's quite vital. It sustains the life around it, feeds endangered monarch caterpillars, shelters their eggs, and lets them morph into beautiful butterflies.

Through work stress and long days, I made the extra effort to care for my milkweed until it grew tall and strong. I was overjoyed when I saw the first caterpillar munching on its leaves, with birds and bumblebees buzzing all around. I was growing something that helped the whole planet!

Then came the aphid... A tiny orange invader that feed on sap, draining the life from milkweed plants. At first, when there were only a few, I mistook them for butterfly eggs and felt hopeful. Then I learned the truth.

I tried to fight them, but they spread faster than I could act.
I went to my neighbor, a landscape architect, and an expert on native plants. She told me to wait. “Give it time,” she said. “Ladybugs will come and take care of the aphids for you." She warned me that if I interfere with nature's balance, I might hurt my milkweed and the caterpillars it was hosting.

So I waited, even though I felt uneasy. Her advice was well intentioned, but it blinded both of us. While I waited, the ladybugs came, but the aphids multiplied faster. The leaves curled and browned. The cocoons did not survive long enough to turn into butterflies.

My milkweed slowly died. Eventually, all the ladybugs and the caterpillars left.

I wanted to nurture life, but instead, the aphids created a garden hostile to it. I was angry, not just at the aphids, but at myself, at the neighbor, at the landlord, and at a system that rewards a clean yard over a living garden simply because it is easier.

When I finally accepted it was over, I decided to say goodbye. I went out and cut down the dead branches before the landscapers came to erase the evidence.

And that’s when I saw them!

Hidden among the dead stems were seed pods, hundreds of silky milkweed seeds waiting to fly.

In that moment, I realized my garden wasn’t dead. It had just completed a cycle. My milkweed bush may be gone, but it left behind everything I need to start again, even stronger than before!

I gathered the seed pods carefully, cleaned each one, and saved them in a small bag for the next cycle.

Some seeds spilled onto the ground, maybe they will take root next spring. The good thing is that even if we do not stay in this house, I now have my seeds to take with me and grow somewhere else. Maybe this time in my own home, where I can finally grow my own wild, infinite garden!

My milkweed bush taught me that even when life cuts you down, your work can become the seeds that outlive you.

I know now that the infinite garden never dies, it simply changes form! I just have to keep nurturing what truly matters without waiting for permission, and trust that somewhere beneath the surface, life is already preparing to bloom again.

~statuette

Where we live, wildlife visits often. A family of deer grazes near the fence. Foxes slip through at night. The groundhog, Phil, and the squirrel, Tanjiro, keep digging into my flower pots. The hummingbird, named TBA: The Beautiful Avian, hovers by my balcony.

I absolutely love living close to wild nature, and I love our garden, but this is a rental house, so the backyard is not really mine. In fact, I don’t even have direct access to the backyard because we live on the second floor.

My gardening efforts are quite limited. Our landlord prefers a neat, manicured lawn, just grass and order. In fact, she hired landscapers to keep everything tidy. We try to catch the landscapers every week before they mow down the tiny wildflowers trying to grow.

I don't blame the landlord. She’s pragmatic, and probably burned out from being responsible for too many properties. She doesn’t have time to think about the little bees, birds, caterpillars and butterflies that depend on wildflowers to survive.

But I grow what I can, without permission.

I have my flowers on my little balcony.

I have my yellow rose in the front yard, which had to be replanted there because Tanjiro the squirrel would not leave it alone on the balcony.

In the backyard I have my overgrown tomatoes, cucumbers and my favorite, the milkweed bush.

I chose to grow milkweed intentionally.

Milkweed is native to where I live. It’s graceful, generous, and humble, yet it's quite vital. It sustains the life around it, feeds endangered monarch caterpillars, shelters their eggs, and lets them morph into beautiful butterflies.

Through work stress and long days, I made the extra effort to care for my milkweed until it grew tall and strong. I was overjoyed when I saw the first caterpillar munching on its leaves, with birds and bumblebees buzzing all around. I was growing something that helped the whole planet!

Then came the aphid... A tiny orange invader that feed on sap, draining the life from milkweed plants. At first, when there were only a few, I mistook them for butterfly eggs and felt hopeful. Then I learned the truth.

I tried to fight them, but they spread faster than I could act.
I went to my neighbor, a landscape architect, and an expert on native plants. She told me to wait. “Give it time,” she said. “Ladybugs will come and take care of the aphids for you." She warned me that if I interfere with nature's balance, I might hurt my milkweed and the caterpillars it was hosting.

So I waited, even though I felt uneasy. Her advice was well intentioned, but it blinded both of us. While I waited, the ladybugs came, but the aphids multiplied faster. The leaves curled and browned. The cocoons did not survive long enough to turn into butterflies.

My milkweed slowly died. Eventually, all the ladybugs and the caterpillars left.

I wanted to nurture life, but instead, the aphids created a garden hostile to it. I was angry, not just at the aphids, but at myself, at the neighbor, at the landlord, and at a system that rewards a clean yard over a living garden simply because it is easier.

When I finally accepted it was over, I decided to say goodbye. I went out and cut down the dead branches before the landscapers came to erase the evidence.

And that’s when I saw them!

Hidden among the dead stems were seed pods, hundreds of silky milkweed seeds waiting to fly.

In that moment, I realized my garden wasn’t dead. It had just completed a cycle. My milkweed bush may be gone, but it left behind everything I need to start again, even stronger than before!

I gathered the seed pods carefully, cleaned each one, and saved them in a small bag for the next cycle.

Some seeds spilled onto the ground, maybe they will take root next spring. The good thing is that even if we do not stay in this house, I now have my seeds to take with me and grow somewhere else. Maybe this time in my own home, where I can finally grow my own wild, infinite garden!

My milkweed bush taught me that even when life cuts you down, your work can become the seeds that outlive you.

I know now that the infinite garden never dies, it simply changes form! I just have to keep nurturing what truly matters without waiting for permission, and trust that somewhere beneath the surface, life is already preparing to bloom again.

~statuette