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“There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature - the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after winter.”
― Rachel Carson, The Sense of Wonder
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This winter, we built a small polytunnel in our garden. (Not the one in the photos — ours is smaller!) But it has transformed our home.
Back in late winter, when the evenings were still dark and the ground was still cold, we planted seeds. Sometimes with the children, sometimes while they slept, working under the dim light of a battery-powered lamp — the same one that had been used for middle-of-the-night baby feeds. That small detail felt symbolic somehow. It dawned on me then that we had moved into a new era — one of burying seeds in the dark instead of midnight feeds.
We played music on a tiny speaker, sheltering in the tunnel while the winter rain pattered on its plastic shell.
After the wild storms this winter, we worried that the tunnel might blow away. But planting seeds felt like the most defiant kind of optimism and hope — the insistence on believing that warmer, brighter days were coming.
In the mornings, before school, the children would run out to check the trays. The tiniest green loop unfurling from the soil felt like a miracle — every new germinated seed was greeted with such excitement.
And it worked. May brought strawberries. Raspberries too — not an abundance, but just enough for the top of our breakfast porridge. Now, in July, it's a jungle in our tunnel. There is towering corn, tangled squash vines, and tomato plants hanging heavy with fruit in every stage of ripeness. Green. Yellow. Red. We’ve even lost track of a little bit of what we planted and where. There are poppies, sunflowers, daisies, and foxgloves.
In one corner, there’s a reading chair for our nine-year-old. In the centre, a low table for Lego and messy painting, and a sandpit for the younger children.
We built all of this because there’s no denying it any more — being in nature makes you feel better. Everyone knows that, even if we forget it sometimes. Something as simple as putting your hand in the soil, watching a seed become a plant, then a flower or your dinner — it connects you to the seasons, to your senses, and to the idea that things can grow and fail and still be beautiful. Our sweet peas didn’t make it this year. Neither did half of our peppers. But that’s part of the planting story too.
Each evening we water. We check. We don’t talk to the plants, but we try to listen — not because we think they’re going to speak, but because paying attention is caring. And if we slow down and tune in, the plants tell us what they need.
Our own little tunnel was partly inspired by a place not far from our studio — a place we visit from time to time. It’s hard to describe without sounding over the top, but it really is kind of magic, and yet so unassuming. You walk through the gate, and something shifts. Your shoulders drop. Your breathing deepens.
This is a place that takes the healing power of nature very seriously. It’s a non-medical, holistic space where growing things is central. Through horticulture, they help people reconnect to themselves, to others, to something bigger. People learn skills. Gain confidence. Find independence. The plants and produce grown there are sold locally, bringing the wider community into the fold.
And more and more, science is backing this up. “Green prescriptions” aren’t just pleasant — they’re powerful. Studies have shown they can be just as effective — sometimes more so — than conventional therapies like CBT. (One pilot scheme in England found that people’s happiness and sense of meaning rose to match national averages. Anxiety dropped. Studies show that it costs less, too — about £500, compared with £1,000 for 10 CBT sessions.)
So when we launched our new vase, we knew exactly where we wanted to photograph it: surrounded by wildflowers, in the place that inspired us, with diffuse light filtering through the tunnel, a tumbling abundance of wild flowers, and the smell of warm soil and moisture in the air.
Our vase design was inspired by the emergence of wildflowers in Spring ... as they push their way up to through the dark soil and reach for the light.
It is designed for wildflowers and fresh-cut garden flowers, holding each stem gently apart so they sit as they do in nature... with a bit of space to breathe.
Because if a tiny seed, buried deep in the cold, wet soil of winter, can push through the dark and come out the other side as a sunflower or a tangle of wildflowers, then maybe more is possible than we think.
Hope takes a little faith. A little bit of patience and some attention and care.
Notes:
Further reading on horticultural therapy:
• NHS recovery gardens and horticultural therapy
• The RHS Wellbeing Blueprint
• Nature prescriptions and green health
Credits:
Words Jo Anne Butler.
Photography Jo Anne Butler, Gearoid Muldowney, with Larissa Bisacca