When I had my son, life got extra busy. Those newborn days were somehow the slowest yet busiest days I’d ever felt. I watched my beautiful spring garden die in the summer sun, wondering how old my baby would need to get before I could find the time to enjoy gardening again. By late afternoons he was cranky, and I felt “touched out” from hours of holding him. I was willing to do anything, so when I read to get outside at dusk, I gave it a try.

We began with a family walk down to our mailbox after dinner, but the path was never straight. A peek at the latest flowers blooming, a few weeds to pull under an apple tree. We started taking the longest route possible: through the vegetable garden, into the orchard, and down past our meadow.

Two years in, we’ve nearly forgotten the “witching hour” and instead enjoy the golden hour in the garden. My husband waters the fruit trees and pulls weeds while I check on the raised beds and tend the pollinator garden. My son runs between us, dragging weeds to the compost pile, tipping the watering can for thirsty plants, or sometimes, simply chasing the dog.

Dinner, garden, bath, bed.

It’s the rhythm that got us back into the garden, enjoying it as a family.