You’ve all seen it—that perfect garden. Impossibly colorful, always tidy. A mown lawn where a dandelion wouldn’t dare bloom. A tree weeping just so over a manicured pond. Serenity, beauty—and work.

I had that perfect garden once. The park-like setting, the pristine flower beds, the curated peace. But the time. The labor. It was just too much.

Now, I strive for the imperfect garden. A comfy place where birds sing, bugs buzz, and native plants thrive. A space where even the weeds get a head start (okay, maybe not all of them). These days, my garden mantras are Leave the Leaves, Reforesting, and No Mow May.

No Mow May is a campaign encouraging us to mow less and enjoy more. It began nearly six years ago and invites homeowners to allow wildflowers to bloom and pollinators to feed. Even the humble dandelion becomes a hero here, supporting bees and butterflies. No herbicides necessary. The smart folks at the Lower Shore Land Trust (LSLT) told me that if I wanted more fireflies, I should mow less. Imperfection I can manage!

Leave the Leaves offers a similar message: let nature do her thing. Those leafy blankets on the ground? They’re homes for woolly worms, beetles, and countless other critters. No need to rake away their shelter.

I’ve even begun reforesting, allowing a chunk of my lawn to revert to the forest next door. In that space, No Mow May has become No Mow Ever. According to LSLT, white oak is a cornerstone species in this region, so I’m nurturing the tiny oak sprouts popping up in my “new” forest. With time, they’ll grow into giants—sheltering birds, feeding insects, and healing the soil. They are little green promises of a more sustainable future.

When I bought my home, it came with the typical suburban lawn: wide, weedy, and boring. It was mostly sand, with dead patches and little beauty. Fixing it would have meant loads of fertilizer and constant maintenance—not great for the Bay, and not great for me. I had more pressing projects anyway, like fixing bathrooms and painting bedrooms.

Still, I dreamed of a new garden—a small, curated slice of perfection, just like the ones in coffee table books. I tried it. And failed. It felt like going on a diet and giving up my favorite potato chips. I needed something better.

Enter the imperfect pollinator garden. A place filled with native plants and wildflowers. A refuge for every creature imaginable. I’ve mulched it with white, red, and crimson clovers, which smother weeds, fertilize naturally, and keep extra nitrogen out of our beloved Chesapeake Bay.

The birds, bees, and bugs all need homes. They need twigs to land on, leaves to nest under, old stalks to cling to, and scraps to munch on. My garden gives them what they need. Fall cleanup? A thing of the past. The mess is the magic—it protects the soil, keeps nutrients in place, and welcomes new life with every season.

Today, my imperfect garden teems with life. Bunnies, tortoises, raccoons, toads, and every flying thing seem to love it here. And I do too. I don’t stress about tall spring grass or brown leaves on the path. I watch BunnyBunny nibble native plants and marvel at his growth, instead of fretting over chewed stems.

That old idea of perfection? It’s been replaced by something better: my now garden. Wild. Restful. Joyful. Perfectly imperfect—just like me.