By Camilla Richardson 
My hollyhock swings back and forth in the hot breeze like the inflatable tube men outside car dealerships. Only this one advertises our home. And I prefer to imagine she’s a woman. Are flowers feminine? In my head they are. Anyway, she waves her bright pink, and my neighbor smiles. “Pretty blooms this year!”
“Yes,” I respond, “the best yet,” and catch myself softly grinning back.
I didn’t always have a garden. If you met me 10 years ago I would have joked that my mother had the green thumb, and I had a black one. I managed to destroy every leafy thing that came my way. Thankfully, age changes us all.
It started with a raised garden attached to a ministry house I was helping lead. The director of the property wanted the garden maintained as a fun activity with the girls living there. Internally, I squeaked in fright and imagined rows of dead sprouts. But I had help from my co-leader and so followed her like a lost puppy to the patches of ready dirt that spring, prepared to plant seeds and weed.
Lo and behold, things grew. It felt like a miracle. We had tomatoes that summer and beans covering a trellis. Later, sweet potatoes the size of my head were harvested and chopped into stir frys and soup. All of it was lovely, magical even. But with everything that sprouted and exploded, I remember the flowers the most.
We had cornflowers that opened bright blue, then faded to pink and white as they matured. The hollyhocks reached above my head and continued blossoming afresh all summer long. In the Sonoran Desert where I reside, this is no small thing. Summer turns all things brown and crackly-dry. But we watered, and the flowers bloomed and bloomed. The color fed my soul.
Eventually, I moved from the ministry house and had gained enough confidence to plant a garden at my own home. I chose wantonly, including herbs and lemongrass, a succulent pot, and citrus trees. But it’s the flowers I sowed that I look for each day.
A splash of bright against a brown background, they seem always ready to surprise and delight. I have snapdragons and geraniums on rotation, a blushing rose bush potted by my bedroom window, and daffodil bulbs dug up for next spring. Some seasons I splurge on zinnias, poppies, and dahlias in a peachy hue. Other times, I simply plant random assortments of what I know has the best bet at long-term survival in this desert.
More than any other plant, the flowers wilt and die and struggle through the heat of this harsh land. But they also seem to fight the hardest for light, reviving when nothing else will, their arms extending high. They show their gratitude for extra rain with a burst of buds. They leave seeds and draw pollinators and make me peek out my windows and smile more than my herbs and vegetables ever could.
So I invite you . . . if you have little time and perhaps precious young ones who need most of your attention or if gardening feels too far and lofty for this season of life, plant just a few flower seeds. Simply water and watch. They’re forgiving. Isn’t that what we all crave?
See what colors come and smells waft to your door and which hummingbird becomes a frequent visitor. It’s low risk, high delight. Start with a wildflower pack from your local nursery and spread where the rain falls. I promise you, it’s hard to regret planting seeds once they bloom. Happy sowing.
by Leah Peterson 
by Heather Spiva 
