I had no interest in taking responsibility for yet another annual that would need watering, deadheading, or overwintering.

Over time, though, roses, especially English shrub roses, started to catch my eye.

I know that color. I had been once before, years ago, with my younger sister, long before I ever thought of myself as a gardener.

It didn’t look like much then. Just a defined edge and a pair of evergreen anchors.

A quiet shift into early spring, with hellebore containers outdoors and kokedama arrangements inside, two ways of welcoming the season.

The whole place had a fairytale feeling—artful, a little whimsical, and just loose enough not to feel overdone.

The farm was quiet, but inside was a magical surprise: tables filled with elegant flowers in bloom, in a wash of colors from pale green to whisper pink tipped in rose, to deep, saturated merlot.

Today is noticeably warmer, and early daffodils are beginning to emerge in the beds, the first real sign of spring.

Mid-March in the Northeast. While the stylist in me wants to edge the beds immediately, the gardener in me says, “Wait. It’s still too wet.”

I used to be drawn to everything at the nurseries. Whatever caught my eye came home with me. But a garden begins to feel cohesive when you choose a few colors and let them repeat.

When we first moved into our house, every bare patch of soil looked like a problem to solve. I was a city girl who knew nothing about growing grass, much less a garden.