My Garden Stories
People often ask why I keep gardening.
Part of the answer is simple—I fell in love with roses. To me, they are among the most beautiful and delicate flowers in the garden. Their soft petals seem almost fragile, yet every rose carries its own reminder that beauty and thorns can exist together. Reach carelessly, and those sharp spikes quickly remind you to slow down and show respect.
Over the years, my garden grew beyond roses. Every season I saved seeds, divided plants, or took cuttings so I wouldn’t lose them. It wasn’t only about growing another plant. It was about preserving something that mattered to me.
Many of those plants remind me of where I come from.
Growing up in Papua New Guinea, gardens were simply part of life. We grew food because that’s what families did. Years later, in Australia, I realised I was still doing the same thing—not because I had to, but because those plants carried pieces of home with them. Every cutting I save and every seed I plant keeps those memories alive a little longer.
I also fill my garden with different flowers because spring has always been my favourite season. After months of quiet, everything begins to wake again. New shoots appear, buds slowly open, and the garden comes alive with colour. Butterflies return, birds visit more often, and even the smallest creatures seem to know that a new season has arrived. I may not see as many as I once did, but every visitor reminds me that life is always finding a way to begin again.
Looking after my garden has never been just about flowers.
It is about remembering where I came from, protecting what I have grown to love, and finding joy in watching life begin again, season after season.
Where the roses once bloomed
When the new fence was first suggested, I struggled to accept it.
Looking back now, I realise it wasn’t really about the fence at all. I was afraid of change. I had become comfortable with my surroundings, with the way everything had always been. The thought of losing that familiar space affected me more than I expected.
What made it even harder was what the fence represented. Just outside the laundry room was one of Rob’s favourite spots. Close to the steps leading into the house, he would often stand there with a cigarette in hand. No smoking was allowed inside, so that little corner became part of our everyday life. It held memories.
When construction began, I was angry and bitter. To make way for the new fence, I had to dig up many of my roses. Some had been growing there for years. Watching them come out of the ground felt like losing another piece of something familiar.
The days during construction were stressful. Everywhere I looked, things were changing. The garden looked different, the space felt different, and I wasn’t ready for it.
But eventually the work was finished.
I replanted my roses, including Dorothy Perkins, and slowly the garden began to settle again. With time, I found myself relaxing. The fence was no longer a project or a disruption. It had simply become part of the landscape.
These days I have accepted that the fence is here to stay. There is no point carrying the stress any longer. The garden is still mine. The memories are still mine. And the roses are still growing.
Now I find myself waiting patiently for the day Dorothy Perkins blooms again. When she finally covers the fence with her flowers, perhaps I will be reminded that not every change is a loss.
Sometimes life asks us to let go of what was familiar so that something new can grow in its place.
Cacti & Succulents
“A small collection that quietly grew over the years.”
There was a time when my garden wasn’t only about roses and flowering plants.
I found myself drawn to cacti and succulents—their remarkable shapes, intricate patterns, and the way they quietly thrived with so little. Every new offset, every fresh rosette, and every tiny cluster felt like a small reward for simply being patient.
Some grew into crowded families of their own, while others unfolded perfect geometric patterns that looked almost too beautiful to be real.
Unlike many flowering plants, they didn’t need to put on a spectacular display to be appreciated. Their beauty was already there—in the texture of a leaf, the symmetry of a rosette, or the delicate network of tiny spines catching the morning light.
Looking back through these photographs reminds me how much joy these little plants brought to my garden.
Sometimes the smallest plants quietly leave the biggest memories.
— Daisy Jericho