Bark on the Beach brings Animal Rescue Rhode Island’s extended family together and helps fund the work that continues long after the last paw print disappears.

Gardeners are artists working in a dynamic medium. After ten years of trial and error, I’ve learned that good garden design isn’t about getting everything right. It’s about knowing your garden, trusting your eye, and learning to compose with change.

A visit to South County Rhode Island's only lavender farm became a lesson in observation, landscape design, and the ways gardens continue to teach us.

A borrowed view is one of the simplest ways to make a garden feel larger without adding a single plant. Discover how framing distant trees, neighboring gardens, and natural scenery can transform the way you experience your own landscape.

I went to the Museum of Fine Arts to see an exhibit about gardens. Instead, I found myself returning to a painting I'd loved since childhood and reflecting on why certain places continue to shape us long after we've left them.

What began as a way to protect roses from deer slowly evolved into one of our favorite garden spaces. A story about English roses, dogs, neighbors, and the garden room I never planned to create.

I remember someone visiting shortly after we purchased the property and remarking, rather dismissively, “This yard isn't that great.” Perhaps they were right.

I thought my mom wanted me to babysit a plant. It turned out to be a story.

My love affair with peonies isn't over. It's just on hold while I get this growing devotion to roses under control.

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.

Some gardens begin with a planting plan. This one began with my mother.

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.

Spring hadn't arrived outside yet. Inside, it already had.

The first daffodil isn't a flower. It's a signal.

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.