Gardening as a Creative Path to Learning to Be Human Again

Something strange happens when you plant a seed. You place it in the soil, cover it with dirt, give it water, and then you wait. A few days later a small green shoot breaks through the ground, and suddenly you realize something important: food does not begin at the grocery store. It begins with a seed, an idea, and patience. Watching that process unfold has changed the way I see the world.

Somewhere along the way, many of us lose touch with the simple act of being human—growing food, making things with our hands, and understanding where our daily life actually comes from. We became busy, productive, and efficient, but often disconnected from the basic rhythms that once guided human life.

Over the past five years, my husband Sam and I have been rediscovering those rhythms. Today we live on five acres in the bottom of the Snake River Canyon in southern Idaho. Here we are practicing what might best be described as modern homesteading—growing food, making things ourselves, and learning skills that reconnect us with how life used to work.

But our story didn’t begin here.

For the first fifty years of my life, home was Phoenix. Phoenix was where adulthood unfolded—where I worked, raised a family, and moved through the pace of a large city. Life there was busy and forward-moving, like it is for many people building careers and families.

Later, another chapter opened when Sam and I moved to a condo overlooking the lights of the Las Vegas Strip. For five years we lived above one of the most energetic places on earth. The city was always awake, always moving, always full of excitement.

During those years we traveled extensively. Travel has a way of expanding your perspective. You begin to notice that there are many ways to live. Some communities live quickly, surrounded by technology and constant motion. Others move at a slower pace, deeply connected to land, food, and tradition. At the time, I didn’t realize those experiences were preparing me for the next chapter.

Five years ago, we left Las Vegas and moved to our property here in southern Idaho. The shift was dramatic. Canyon walls and open skies replaced city lights. Instead of traffic and constant activity, we began to hear the quiet. And in that quiet, something unexpected began to happen.

We started growing food. At first it was simple—just learning how to plant a garden. But once you start growing food, it becomes much more than a hobby. You begin to understand food differently. It no longer begins in a store or a package. It begins with the decision to plant something. First comes the idea. Then you find the seeds. Then you ask the practical questions: When should it be planted? How much water does it need? What soil works best?

Once the seeds are in the ground, the most remarkable part begins. We watch our food grow. A tiny seed becomes a plant. A plant becomes nourishment. Eventually we harvest vegetables, herbs, and fruit that end up on our table. What we can’t eat immediately is preserved through canning or freeze-drying so it can feed us later in the year.

Gardening has changed our relationship with food completely. It has also led us to explore other ways of creating things we use every day. Our neighbors are beekeepers, so we buy honey directly from the hive next door. We make candles using local beeswax. We are learning how to make soap using tallow from local sources. Every project becomes another small step toward understanding how life used to work.

Because we are constantly experimenting and learning, we jokingly call our home Orrick University. This five-acre property has become our personal campus—a place where we can explore ideas about health, food, creativity, and what it really means to live intentionally. Through meditation, journaling, gardening, and creating things with our hands, we are slowly rediscovering parts of life that modern culture often forgets.

Creativity has become a daily part of our lives. A deep source of this creativity comes from the environment itself. Nature slows the mind down. When you work in a garden, watch seasons change, and see food grow from the soil, your perspective shifts. Life feels less rushed and more connected to something timeless.

This year I turned sixty. And surprisingly, this may be the most meaningful chapter of my life. Earlier chapters were about building a life—moving forward, meeting responsibilities, keeping up with the pace of the world. This chapter feels different. Now I am no longer running toward life or running away from it. I am simply living it. And through this process, something unexpected has become clear. In many ways, this chapter of life is about rediscovering what it means to be human again. To grow food. To cook real meals. To create things with your hands. To reflect.

Sam and I love how we’re reconnecting with the land that sustains us. After a lifetime that began in Phoenix, passed through the lights of Las Vegas, traveled across oceans and continents, and eventually landed here in southern Idaho, I find myself exactly where I need to be. Here, at Orrick University, learning every day how to be human again.

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