Orcas Garden Club president’s message

||| FROM ROBIN SULLIVAN for ORCAS GARDEN CLUB |||

I have officially been a gardener for almost three years now. Long enough to feel confident, but not quite long enough to stop Googling, “what is this?”

Like many of you, my husband Allen and I began this journey when we bought our home—a property that can only be described as “ambitious.” With love, determination, and what I now recognize as wildly unrealistic optimism, we set out to restore a long-abandoned garden.

To say it was overgrown would be generous. Brambles had staged a full takeover, crisscrossing over what we assume was once a tidy garden. The lavender and Russian sage were hanging on by what looked like their last polite efforts, and a couple of hydrangeas offered up a bloom or two, as if to say, “We’re trying, but no promises.” The true survivors were the evergreen trees and their many enthusiastic volunteer offspring.

As a complete novice, I joined the garden club, hoping to learn what to keep and what to quietly
escort into the forest. On my first noxious weed walk, I discovered that the plants I had been carefully
protecting were actually some of the garden’s worst offenders. A humbling start, and a lesson I am,
apparently, still learning years later.

So, I cleaned, I cleared and I hauled dirt both in and out. That first year, I learned about heathers and heaths, mulch and spacing, and what might actually survive during the wet months and the drought
months. There were successes… and there were learning opportunities (which is a much nicer way of saying “failures”). Eventually, after lots of time spent in the garden, things started happening. Bulbs emerged. Irises and crocosmia appeared. A long-forgotten rose bush came back to life, blooming with the kind of fragrant, old-fashioned roses that reminded me of my grandmother at a fancy holiday party when I was a kid. That was my first glimpse that a garden isn’t just something you fix—it’s something you grow with.

That first year, the thing I learned most was how much I didn’t know.

By year two, I expected results. Surely this would be the year of the spectacular garden! To be fair, the older plants did start to thrive now that they had space and care, but some of the perennials I planted the year before left me wondering, “Are you dead… or just simply unmotivated?” I moved plants into the sun, out of the sun, and sometimes back into the sun. I listened intently to my fellow gardeners and guest speakers, and learned to enjoy small successes.

Now, in year three, I’m starting to understand there is a rhythm to it all. Some plants take their time. Some surprise you. And some come back just when you think they’re gone forever. I’m learning to be patient, to pay attention, and to trust the process a little more. Spring doesn’t happen all at once, just because we call it spring; it’s a slow reveal. Tulips and irises will decide when they want to come up. Same for the anemones which I planted in year one and are just now making their appearance.

If the saying is true that perennials sleep the first year, creep the second, and leap the third, then I’m heading into year three with a healthy mix of hope and realism. Of course, if nothing starts leaping this year, I’ve learned to take it in stride—gardens move at their own pace, and I’m learning to enjoy the view along the way.

What gardening has really taught me is patience—and that the process is the best part. It reminds me of a lot of friendships: you put in the time and care, and growth comes when it’s ready, not when you demand it.

The garden club feels much the same. The more I show up and put in the effort, the more meaningful it becomes. And truly, I have learned that is the value of both a garden and a garden club. The knowledge, the camaraderie, the shared advice—and the occasional commiseration—make the whole experience richer.

Thank you for helping me learn, improve, and, maybe most importantly, laugh along the way.