The List

Mar 02, 2025

I feel strangely detached from the materiality of life these days; a scarcity mindset has taken over, and it colors everything grey. The world robs me of peace. (Perhaps you feel it, too.) But I took inventory this weekend of all the materials I need for gardening indoors, partly because it’s that time of year again, and partly as a way to counter this cold edge I carry every day.

If I could create a portrait of my potting area using only words, I might render it narratively, like this:

The laundry room, which also serves as the indoor gardening space, includes an old battered wooden table. I spotted it discarded by the road during a morning run years ago. I retrieved it after my run and soon filled the top with gardening materials, including an oversized grey gardening bag plump with tools, like flower snippets, an old towel for wiping up potting soil, a soil dauber.

I count three plastic milk jugs I’ve collected since December — they’re set aside to winter sow lettuce and larkspur this month.

An assortment of vases, some large and white and textured, others small and smooth and glass, are perched near the rounded edge of the table. I neglected to put them away last fall, and now I’ve convinced myself to just let them stand guard. In six weeks time I’ll fill them with spring bouquets anyway.

Rolls of green Velcro tape rest in a coiled pile used to secure climbing vines to bamboo stakes. I haven’t finalized which vines I’ll plant this year, but nasturtium, tomatoes, and climbing beans are on the short list.

A small collection of seed packets, ordered for my next indoor seed sowing episode. An old plastic tray that should be tossed, but for some reason still sits on the table top, collecting dust. A beautiful turquoise square plate, originally designed to hold sushi rolls, now cradles dried flower heads as part of a seasonal flat lay. Folded newspapers. Liquid plant fertilizer. Dried bunny tail blossoms sticking out the top of an old tin can.

The list can just as easily be things I like: gardening as an act of rebellion against winter. Seasons, although some more than others. Assorted vessels for flowers, especially those that hold personal meaning, and repurposed containers, too (the spread of materials across the table might convince someone that I am disorganized. They might be right.) I love tote bags and seed packets, quick garden sketches illustrated on scraps of paper. Hummingbirds. Twine. Handmade pots for plants, especially if made by dear friends.

Duct tape. Painter’s tape. A permanent marker. Small ceramic bowls filled with seeds collected last summer. Peas. Cosmos. A range of unidentified seeds packed in tiny plastic bags with the words, “Plant me!” written across the top, a ghost message sent from my past self to my future self, wrapped in trust.

The Kate Spade bud vase from our wedding registry, once part of a pair, but now a solo vessel without its mate after a mishap involving small children and indoor rough housing. And another cherished vase — this one large, white, and adorned with a honeycomb texture. It holds my most statuesque flowers, like dahlias and delphiniums.

I see now this list could also document gifts I’ve received from family and friends who know my obsession with gardening: a pair of delicate, blush-colored garden snips from my aunt, a hori-hori knife from a close friend looking to re-home the tool before she moved west, a white milk glass vase from my mother, a metallic vase that could easily double as an ice bucket for wine bottles (this one a gift to myself nearly twenty years ago). A bottle of gin, a garden calendar, a small brush to clean dirty finger nails after spending the day elbow-deep in rich soil, a plate, a jug of fish emulsion (not a gift, but a recommendation from a fellow gardener, and it has has served me well, so kind of like a gift).

When the afternoon sun hits its peak, winter or summer, this room fills with daylight, its southern exposure casting long shadows on the wall behind the cluttered table. It’s the most unromantic room in the house, yet it holds the most possibility, too. All my hopes and dreams for next season’s garden sit atop the table.

The macro world may be thin, but my micro world is plenteous.

It’s the start of meteorological spring. Trays of newly emerging seeds line a wire shelving unit, like snapdragons and parsley, pansies, rows of lettuce, onions, peppers, and even delphinium. I start my cold hardy seeds in late February, but start most flowers in deep March. On April 1st, I’ll pot up dahlia tubers along with lilies and elephant ear bulbs and then place them under grow lights. If you indoor sow your garden plants, I’d love to hear about your process and timeline.

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