There’s something alchemical about growing flowers.
It begins, always, with the soil—humble, unassuming, quiet. But it holds the promise of transformation. And isn’t that the beautiful metaphor for life? From the dirt beneath our fingernails springs forth colour, scent, and joy—if we are willing to lean in, to nurture, to wait.
I’ve come to see my garden and my flower field as a kind of sacred collaborator. The flowers are not mine, not really. I may place them gently into the ground, whispering hopeful wishes as I tuck each seed or seedling into place, but after that—they belong to the earth, the weather, the seasons. They bloom in their own divine time.
Take the dahlias. The work begins in the quiet, the prepping of the soil, digging deep, placing each tuber just so, covering, waiting. Then, in their own time they begin to sprout, like eager children bursting with energy. For me there’s no perfection in this process. No Martha Stewart moments. More chaos and hope. Yes. But also: abundance. A riot of petals waiting to unfold. I laugh at the absurdity of it all—muddy boots, aching back, sunshine on my neck. Rain, rain and more rain! (This is Byron Bay after all!) But, what a glorious kind of mess. A beautiful mess. And in time, with the right conditions, the tubers become plants and the flowers unfurl and the field is alive with colour and beauty.
Growing flowers isn’t about perfection and it’s not always easy. It’s not about neat rows or the straightest stems. It’s not about the end point although a blooming flower is so satisfying to see. It’s about energy—how a single rose can soften a room, or how the scent of gardenia at dusk can hush the loudest parts of your day. It’s about rhythm—planting by the moon, trimming by instinct, watering with intention.
At Graciosa, our little patch of paradise in the Byron hinterland, the garden is our muse. Wild jasmine climbs the verandah posts, the cosmos dance in the breeze, and the zinnias—in vintage shades—remind me to never underestimate softness.
And yes, there are failures. Tulip bulbs that rot. Zinnias that shrivel. A bed of ranunculus that decided it simply wasn’t their year. But isn’t that the great gift of gardening? You learn to let go. To begin again. To believe in the next bloom.
If you’re just beginning your flower journey, I say: start small. A pot of sweet peas by your kitchen door. A corner patch of sunflowers near the fence. Don’t worry about rules. Let your heart lead. Choose what makes you smile.
Because in the end, growing flowers is less about creating a perfect garden, and more about crafting a beautiful life—petal by petal, moment by moment.
With love and muddy hands,
Shannon x