Garden as Muse: How Nature Shapes My Work

Every artist has a place they return to. Mine has always been the garden.

It started as a small corner of calm in a chaotic world. A patch of green that became my ritual, my rhythm, and in many ways, my refuge. Over time, it grew alongside me. It became more than a place to unwind. It became a living, breathing part of my creative process.

My history with gardening goes back as far as I can remember. I learned flower gardening from my mother ~ how to care for delicate blooms, how to notice the details that most people walk past. She taught me the aesthetics of it, the balance of color and structure. With my grandmother, I learned the practical magic of growing food. From vegetables to herbs, she showed me how to tend a living pantry, how to listen to the land, and how to give back to it. Between the two of them, I inherited not just knowledge, but a love for watching things grow ~ slowly, intentionally, with care.

When I step into the garden, I step into another way of seeing. I notice the curve of a petal, the rhythm of wind in leaves, the strange beauty of decay and rebirth. These moments have made their way into my work, whether I mean for them to or not. The shapes, colors, and shifting light echo through my brushstrokes and compositions.

My temple series, for example, draws heavily from this quiet source. You can see the soft gradients of sunset, the layered mists, the sense of stillness that only comes from watching the world move slowly. Nature isn’t just a backdrop in my art. It’s a collaborator.

Gardening also keeps me grounded ~ literally and emotionally. It reminds me that not everything blooms all at once. That some things take time, and that time itself is part of the process. There’s a deep kind of patience in planting a seed and waiting weeks or months to see what comes of it. That patience has fed directly into how I create.

There’s also comfort in the physicality of it. The dirt under my nails. The rhythm of watering. The sweat of weeding. These acts become meditative. They strip away the digital noise and let me reconnect with something ancient and honest. That quiet clarity follows me back into the studio.

Whether I’m working on a temple floating in mist or a dreamlike cosmic scene, the garden is always there with me. It may not always be obvious, but it’s woven into the work. In the balance. In the color. In the breath between strokes.

This isn’t just a creative process ~ it’s a relationship, a slow unfurling conversation. One that deepens with every season.

Thank you for being part of this journey, and for letting me share a little of the soil and soul behind the art.