Next general meeting
March 10th, 2026. 9:30am-11:30am
LFP Third Place Commons (near the stage).

**Why I Like March in the garden** March is the month when the Pacific Northwest begins to wake up—but not all at once, and not loudly. That’s one of the reasons I love the garden here in March. It doesn’t burst into life; it slowly inhales. After months of winter rain, the soil is dark and saturated, almost black against the pale sky. In many parts of the country, March is still brittle and brown. Here, it’s luminous. Moss glows electric green on stones and tree trunks. Lawns thicken. Fern fronds begin to uncurl in quiet spirals. Even the air feels green—cool, damp, and alive with possibility. The light changes first. The days stretch noticeably longer, and when the sun does appear between showers, it slants low and golden across emerging growth. Raindrops cling to the edges of leaves and catch that light, turning an ordinary afternoon into something almost theatrical. The garden feels intimate in March. You notice details: the sheen on new growth, the tight buds swelling on shrubs, the faint scent of wet cedar. Early bloomers take their turn without fanfare. Camellias carry on from winter, their waxy petals scattered like porcelain on the ground. Hellebores nod in muted shades—plum, cream, green—unbothered by rain. Crocuses spear up through mulch, flashes of purple and yellow against the subdued palette. And then the first cherry blossoms open, softening entire streets with pale pink haze. It’s not yet the riot of April, but it’s a promise. What I love most is the sense of anticipation. March in the Pacific Northwest garden is a threshold. The structure of winter is still visible—the bones of shrubs, the architecture of bare branches—but life is pushing through everywhere. You can see both rest and growth at once. Pruning feels hopeful, not harsh. Turning the compost feels like participating in something larger than yourself. There’s also a particular stillness to March. The frenzy of summer hasn’t arrived. There are no hoses snaking across paths, no urgent watering schedules, no overwhelming abundance to manage. Instead, there’s time to observe. Time to notice where bulbs are emerging and where a new plant might thrive. Time to plan, to imagine, to kneel in the damp soil and feel connected to the season’s slow unfolding. In March, the Pacific Northwest garden feels honest. It doesn’t pretend to be polished or complete. It’s in transition—messy, wet, and quietly determined. And maybe that’s why I love it. It reminds me that growth doesn’t have to be dramatic to be profound. Sometimes it’s enough to be green, persistent, and patient under a soft gray sky.