The Feral Garden Where Chaos Grows Fruit and Memory Smells Like Mint

I was raised in a wild garden. Not wild like untouched wilderness — wild like unstructured abundance. Fruit trees and fences, mint and roses, chaos and care. My swing set was nestled between a mango tree and a fig. Pink guavas hung low enough to stain my dresses. We’d pop pomegranate seeds in our mouths and smear the juice across our lips like red lipstick. Back then, the garden was our mirror, our jungle, our sanctuary. There were no Pinterest boards. No moodboards. Just my grandparents, their hands, and the ground. Honeysuckle twined through the chainlink. The neighbor’s voice came through with his harvest — always something to trade. Wildflowers erupted without anyone asking. Oregano and mint colonized the forgotten corners. My grandma’s roses leaned out like gossiping aunties, blooming wherever they pleased. It was feral. It was sacred. It was everything. And that’s why I believe in wild gardens. Because nature doesn’t need us to control it — it needs us to love it. To sit with it. To let it be. Plants don’t perform for us. They befriend us. They remind us that beauty isn’t symmetrical — it’s surrendered. Want to grow wild again? Our Feral Plant Packages are designed for unmanicured magic — fruit corridors, edible weeds, tangled pollinators, and memory plants. This is a love letter to the uncurated.