Gardening was never seen as just a hobby on my mother’s side of the family. It was an art, a skill, and a way of understanding feng shui. In direct translation, feng shui means “wind-water,” and it reflects the flow of energy within a home and family. My grandparents, like many people of their generation, believed that when plants grew healthy and strong, it was a sign that the family carried positive energy, along with wealth, prosperity, and good health. To them, a garden was never just decoration. It was a reflection of the people who cared for it and the life growing around it.
Some of my earliest memories are of visiting my grandparents and seeing their garden. I remember the bright leaves shining under the sun, the sharp tang of lemons in the air, and the Golden Nanmu tree that always stood out to me as something rare and almost sacred. Every time I returned, everything seemed bigger, stronger, and more alive. As a child, I used to wonder if my grandpa had some kind of secret potion that made everything grow so beautifully. But there was no secret. It was just patience, routine, and care. He watered each plant carefully, paid attention to every leaf, and nurtured the garden the way someone would care for a child. That was what made it so beautiful. It was not magic.
That is why gardening means so much more to me now. It is not just about plants. It is about what those plants represent. Each tree, fruit, and flower carries a history of where my family came from and what they believed in. My grandparents brought with them not only traditions, but also a way of seeing the world, one where care and growth were deeply connected. They believed that what you nurture will eventually flourish, whether that is a garden, a home, or a family.
My mother inherited that same skill and artistry from her parents and brought it with her to the United States in 2004. Even after moving to a new country, she held onto this part of home. Over time, as she became busy raising my sisters and me, gardening blended into daily life rather than standing apart from it. It became something quieter but still deeply present, woven into the way she cared for our family. My uncles also have gardens of their own, which makes this tradition feel even larger than one person. It stretches across generations. In many ways, my grandparents planted more than seeds when they came here. They planted values, habits, and traditions into foreign soil, trusting that future generations would continue to grow from them.
That is why gardening is my object. It is physical, but it is also symbolic. It represents patience, care, family history, and the idea that growth takes time. It connects me to my grandparents, to my mother, and to a cultural belief system that sees nature as deeply tied to the energy of a home. When I think about gardening, I do not just think about leaves or fruit. I think about inheritance. I think about what gets passed down without always being spoken. I think about how something as ordinary as watering a plant can hold history, love, and intention.
Gardening matters to me; it reflects growth that comes from being nurtured, protected, and given time. In that way, gardening tells the story of my family. It tells the story of how my grandparents carried their beliefs into a new land, how my mother continued them, and how I now see myself as part of that same living history. Gardening is not just a hobby. It is a tradition, a legacy, and a reflection of the roots that continue to ground me.
