How to Build a Garden When the World Is on Fire

A guide for beginning anyway, using what you have, and growing something that matters.

1. Begin Where You Are. Even If It’s Small. Even If It’s Late.

Maybe you only have a few pots on a balcony. Maybe your backyard is compacted clay or overtaken by kids’ toys. Maybe you don’t know what you’re doing.

Good. That means you’re paying attention. And it means you’re ready.

Most revolutions start small. So do most gardens.

One pot of parsley. One patch of peas. One moment of moving your body in care instead of despair. These are enough to begin.

You don’t need to know everything. You just need to put something in the soil and see what happens.

Start anyway.

2. It Doesn’t Have to Be Pretty. It Just Has to Grow.

You are not a lifestyle brand. Your garden doesn’t have to be, either.

Use what you have. Let it be wonky. Let it be weird. Baby gates make great trellises. Buckets become planters. Old wood scraps make fine raised beds.

We’re not here to be perfect. We’re here to be alive!

Let go of the Pinterest fantasy. You’re not growing content. You’re growing food. And spirit. And sovereignty.

Let the mess be part of the magic. The mess is beautiful – we’ve just been conditioned to believe it’s the opposite. What is more beautiful than doing what you can with what you have?

3. You Don’t Have to Do It Alone

Even if you’re introverted. Even if you don’t know your neighbors.

Somewhere near you, someone has extra seedlings. Someone has worm castings they’d love to share. Someone’s zucchini is out of control and they want you to take some.

Find the others.

Start by asking around. Look at Buy Nothing groups, neighborhood forums, local seed swaps. Even a cardboard sign in your yard that says “Need mulch? Let’s talk.”

Community doesn’t have to be loud. It can be a quiet trade of calendula or compost. It can be someone remembering you like tomatoes.

You don’t have to do this alone.

4. Grow What You Actually Eat

Don’t start with kale if you hate kale.

Look at what you and your family eat every week. Start there. Garlic. Lettuce. Cilantro. Beans. Tomatoes. Potatoes.

The point is not novelty—it’s nourishment.

And once you start harvesting, learn to cook with what you grow. Let that be part of the journey. You’re not failing if you don’t know how. That’s the beginning of knowing.

Grow what you eat. Eat what you grow. Waste less. Learn more.

5. Use Local Seeds and Save Them If You Can

Local seeds are more than regional. They’re relational. They’ve been through the same storms you have.

Buy from local growers when you can. Ask about heirlooms. Learn what thrives in your microclimate.

And then: save seeds. It’s one of the most underrated gardening practices. It teaches you slowness, discernment, timing, memory.

Saving seeds is saving possibility. For your future self. For your children. For someone you’ll never meet.

6. The Garden Is Not Separate From Collapse. It Is a Response.

This is not a hobby. It’s not an aesthetic. It’s not another thing to fetishize.

This is a response. To the system that taught us convenience is better than care. To the fear that says we can’t begin.

Gardening teaches you to show up when you don’t feel ready. To tend even when you’re tired. To plant again after loss.

In the face of everything, growing something is an act of defiant hope.

Let your grief come with you. Let your rage be composted. Let your fear sit in the sun with you while you water the chard.

This is not separate from collapse. It is how we survive it. Planting something is saying: I still believe in tomorrow.

Tending is an act of defiance.

7. Soil Is the Spell. Stewardship Is a Prayer.

When you tend your soil, you’re tending the future.

You’re not just feeding yourself. You’re feeding the worms. The fungi. The unseen and the not-yet-born.

This is where dreaming becomes dirt. This is how we make deposits into a future that matters.

Let the weeds stay where they offer medicine. Let the dandelions bloom. Let your garden be a gesture of reciprocity.

Not domination. Not control. Not perfection. Toward right relationship. We are learning together.

To plant is to pray.

To compost is to trust.

To tend is to believe that something better is possible.

And maybe, just maybe, that belief is enough to get us through.

May your soil be soft, and your resistance rooted.