I took a year off from the garden.

That sounds more dramatic than it was. I didn’t abandon it — the perennials kept doing their thing, the berry bushes fruited on schedule, the deer maintained their end of our agreement. But 2025 was a year of work pressure and shifting priorities, and the raised beds didn’t get planted, the weeding didn’t happen, and I watched the garden do what gardens do when you step back: carry on without you, slightly offended.

But it’s 2026 now, and this was the first week of consistent sunshine and above-freezing temperatures — the kind of early March weather where the snow pulls back just enough to remind you there’s still ground under there. I had a cold and needed to clear my head (or at least my sinuses), so I pulled on my boots and went to see what I was working with.

Here’s what I found.

One — The Thaw Between the Berries

This is the path between the rows of berry bushes, doing its daily thing of melting by afternoon and refreezing by morning. The moss is emerging in patches. The ground is a shade of post-winter brown that promises green in about three weeks. And if you look closely at the bushes on either side, they’re lined with tiny buds just waiting for someone to turn the thermostat up a few more degrees.

I didn’t do a thing for these bushes last year and they’re ready to go anyway. Most of our ribes were here before me and will be here long after.

Two — The Pea Beds

I’m actually planning to sow these this coming week, which feels absurdly early until you remember that peas don’t care about your feelings or the calendar. They want cold soil and they’re going to get it. I would have sown them a month earlier if I had that sort of energy.

The beds are still frozen but they’re not the disaster I was bracing for. A bit of cleanup, some raking, and they’re ready. Half-hour stints in this weather is all I’m good for, so a low-effort start is exactly what I need. I’m also genuinely pleased that the climbing panels I put up years ago with a few nails and what I can only describe as optimistic structural engineering are still standing.

Three — The Jerusalem Artichoke Experiment

Last autumn, I chopped up a bed’s worth of Jerusalem artichoke stalks and just… left them. On purpose. The idea was to see how much would break down over a Finnish winter, since composting in a climate where everything freezes solid for months is more a philosophy than a science.

The verdict so far: some decomposition, but we’re not there yet. I’ll give it until the real thaw before I decide what to do with it. Worst case, I spread the partially broken-down material across the other beds and the flower field as mulch. Best case, it breaks down enough to feed the roots underneath, new shoots come straight through, and I never have to touch it at all until autumn harvest. In the meantime, it’s been serving as a small invertebrate hotel all winter, so I hope they’re grateful.

Four — Monarda, Holding Court

I leave the seed heads standing through winter partly because they feed the birds and partly because they look like this — fuzzy little sentinels against the snow, backlit by that low March sun. These are purple monarda (bee balm), and they’ve been out here being quietly architectural while I’ve been inside eating bread and complaining about the dark.

Five — The Rhododendrons, Dramatic as Ever

The rhododendrons are doing their signature winter move: leaves curled and drooping like they’re auditioning for a Victorian fainting scene. This is normal. This is what rhododendrons do when it’s cold. They’re not dying, they’re just being theatrical about surviving.

But look closer and you can see the buds forming — fat and tight and ready. The moment temperatures stabilize, these will unfurl like they were never bothered at all. (I should probably look up when they need to be fed. I have an entire tub of rhododendron food sitting in the cellar, doing nothing. The rhodos and I have that in common — resources available, deployment pending.)

Six — The Siberian Irises Don’t Care About Your Winter

And then there are the Siberian irises in the pond bed, already pushing green shoots through the snow and ice with the energy of someone who has been through decades of Finnish winters and is profoundly unimpressed by this one.

The fact that they’re called Siberian is probably a good hint as to why. They don’t need feeding, they don’t need fussing, they barely need acknowledging. They just show up every spring like punctual, sword-leafed employees reporting for duty. If the rest of the garden had their attitude, I could take another year off and no one would notice.

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It’s not much to look at yet. The garden is still mostly brown and white and waiting. But there’s green pushing through in all the right places, the structures I built are holding, and I’ve got pea seeds ready to go into cold ground this week.

2025 was fallow. 2026 is going to grow.

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