Seeds of Intention: Planning a Garden in the Quiet of Winter
By Jill Hall
2025 Master Gardener Intern
As the dark days of winter settle in, my garden has tucked itself into its seasonal slumber. I am spending more time indoors while the frost outside leaves its sparkly trail on branches and leaves. A quick walk to the mailbox for the daily snail mail delivers one of the great joys of winter for gardeners everywhere, a seed catalog. I clutch it like a prized manuscript and prepare for a cozy evening with a blanket, a cup of tea, and a generous amount of daydreaming about what I might grow in the coming year.
There is always a dash of urgency while flipping through the catalog pages, knowing that the prized exotic heirloom seeds could sell out before I have the chance to secure them. However, this is no longer the frantic ordering spree of past years. Finishing my internship as a master gardener this past year has given me a curious mixture of clarity and ambition. I now recognize that gardening is part desire and part discernment. I am learning to pause before tossing every tempting seed packet into my cart (or the ground).
This pause is difficult when presented with photos of gorgeous purple and gold ‘Black Strawberry’ heirloom tomatoes or the peculiar charm of ‘Mexican Sour Gherkin’ cucumbers that promise enormous yields. Yet my enthusiasm flickers as memories of the summer of 2025 resurface. My small vegetable garden became an all-you-can-eat buffet for every creature with a pulse. I planted cucumbers twice. They were destroyed twice. Me zero. Creatures two. My green beans grew valiantly only to be snipped clean at the stems while I slept. What goes on in those mysterious hours between watering and wilt remains one of nature’s less endearing riddles.
As I indulged in this lament, a chorus of garden thoughts reemerged from late summer: raise the height of the vegetable beds, add netting, install irrigation, become a better pruner, and while you are at it, figure out slugs. Then came the more existential questions. Should I give up vegetables altogether? Are native plants better suited to coexist with the cedar tree that rules my backyard. Will I ever mulch before the bulbs sprout? Where exactly is my hand trowel and why am I buying a third one? These thoughts tumbled about until I turned the page and was rescued by the bright, citrusy promise of ‘Dwarf Lemon Cilantro’ accompanied by an Audrey Hepburn quote, “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.”
This line snapped everything into focus. Gardening, at its core, is not just about survival of the fittest against the critters or to outsmarting slugs. It is a hopeful act. With that in mind, I am officially declaring 2026 the year of the garden. My first step is to have a plan. I will do more of what worked well last year. I will better understand what I already have and develop feeding and pruning cycles that nurture growth. I will prioritize projects based not only on cost but on joy and long-term reward.
To bring order to this ambition I am writing down my gardening goals and sorting them into categories:
Problem areas in the yard and solutions.
What succeeded in 2025 and should be repeated?
Ways to make gardening easier.
New projects to explore.
Budget considerations.
Time management.
With this framework in mind, I have drawn a diagram of my yard, complete with compass directions and areas of sun, shade, and everything in between. Living near a wooded area with towering cedars, I have been at the mercy of their influence on soil and light. I am reviewing the placement of perennials, evergreen shrubs, and raised beds, considering which of them deserve to stay and which are merely stubborn experiments. There is no shame in admitting defeat if the defeat comes with wisdom.
Once the evaluation is finished, the real planning begins. For me, this means soil testing multiple areas, removing raised beds to make space for shrubs, creating a pruning schedule for roses, shrubs, and berry bushes, and researching soil amendments for my problem areas. This year I will choose annual seeds more thoughtfully, leaning into herbs and flowers and fewer vegetables. I will compare seed requirements against the realities of my garden’s light and soil conditions before placing any order, resisting the urge to chase every plant that whispers my name.
Finally, I am committing to using a calendar. I want to work intentionally rather than madly, to leave space not just for chores but for enjoyment. A garden is not merely something to tend. It is something to love.
And so, in the quiet heart of winter, I begin. My plans are neatly stacked beside me, the catalog is dog eared, and the year ahead feels ripe with possibility. Spring will test my resolve, but for now, the future rests in seed form, waiting patiently for the sun and warmer temperatures to return.
Jill Hall is a 2025 Master Gardener intern graduating on Jan. 10, 2026. She enjoys growing herbs, flowers, and vegetables. She supported the Shorewood Culinary Garden this past year. Jill is a watercolor artist and enjoys painting birds, flowers, and plants. To learn more about our mission, programs, or ways to get involved, visit www.MGFKC.org.
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