5 Incredibly useful creativity lessons you’ll learn from gardening

I’m out in the garden, kicking at the dilapidated siding of an old raised bed, feeling overwhelmed.

I’m in a new house on an unfamiliar plot of land with a couple of beds left by the previous owners, overgrown with lavender and sage. In the spring, I saw signs that this land was loved: plantings of snowdrops, daffodils, and a spectacular star magnolia. But now that it’s mine, I look out at the expanse of green — getting bushier and wilder every day — and feel paralyzed. Where do I even begin?

The feeling is not so different from how I sometimes feel as a songwriter starting something new. My fingertips touching the piano keys, wondering which chord to strike first. A whole bed of notes unfurling before me, the seeds of a song dreaming deep within them. To begin is often the hardest part.

It got me thinking about the many parallels between gardening and the creative process. Both require tending and attention; the patience and willingness to try and fail and try again. Both are rooted in the basic premise of bringing something dormant to life and watching it grow — be it a magnolia or a memory. And in both cases, we are asked to connect to a deeper source.

As I tend to my new property, I’ve discovered five lessons that can be passed between the hands of the gardener and the artist. Hopefully they will inform your creative pursuits, whether you’re writing your memoir or trying your hand at watercolors.

The life of a garden is, of course, cyclical. Each season asks something different of us. There is a time to plant, to harvest, to cut back, to wait. To love the earth is to understand these seasons and to recognize that everything returns. 

Similarly, as an artist, I have found there are seasons for dreaming, creating, sharing, and going silent. And they’re all integral to the process.

When I approach my artistic practice with the same seasonal mindset as I would the garden, it allows me to be kinder to myself when I’m not feeling so creative. It attunes me to the urge to grab a basket and shake the trees when I know they’re full of ideas. It reminds me that there will always be a time of withering, and that on the other side of it, something will return.

It’s hard and painful work, but for your seedlings to grow, you must thin them and give them space. Overcrowding depletes resources, and then nothing can thrive. 

In creative speak, we call this “killing your darlings.” You have to cull things you love for the work as a whole to flourish. 

When I’m working on a song, for instance, sometimes I’ll write a lyric or a melody that I adore, but it gets in the way of the next line. I’ll try to force-fit the music around it, but the song doesn’t flow. Ultimately, the line must be removed for the piece to work. 

It can sting in the moment, to discard something we love so much, but it’s an unburdening, a gift. It’s like lifting a stone on a trapped butterfly wing and watching the creature fly free.

A friend of mine who’s a master gardener recently told me that it’s taken her four seasons to finally stop planting okra. She doesn’t like okra, but she thought she had to grow it because people grow okra around here. Four whole seasons of cultivating something she didn’t even like to eat, just because it could/should be done!

For artists, this is a reminder to make what you want to make. Often we feel compelled to create for an audience. What will people want to hear/read/ experience? We end up churning out work that we don’t feel connected to. This not only produces art with less heart, it also robs us of the joy embedded in the process of creating. 

Instead, go where there's heat. Make what you love. Cultivate what feeds you.

The best gardens are not just productive; they’re also an emporium of sensory engagement. The soft squish of an heirloom tomato. Native plants drawing the drone of bumblebees. The fragrance of night-blooming jasmine.

In artmaking, we strive to engage all the senses, too. Writing music that physically vibrates the chest, crafting stories that elicit the scents of our past, painting with a palette that stirs a certain mood. Art comes to life when it touches us on multiple levels: when we can taste the words on the page, or hear the wind rake the ocean waves on a canvas.

Gardening is a lot about trust. We can’t see what’s growing beneath the surface, but we trust that water is trickling down, worms are working the soil, and seeds are germinating.

For artists, this means that even when you feel uninspired and unproductive, something is taking root. Ideas are percolating while you’re out living — having a conversation with friends, reading a book, or driving. 

This reframing helps us be a little kinder to ourselves; to recognize that creating isn’t just the flashy blooms, it is also the quietly sprouting seeds and the tentative thrust of buds. When we trust what’s growing in the dark, when we have patience and allow the work to unwind beyond our comprehension, then the magic reveals itself.