Field Note #8
- Jayme Hanna
- 15 hours ago
- 4 min read
Tending What Grows Wild
August 28, 2026 | 9:16 AM
I finally learned how to use the weed eater.
This may not sound like a major accomplishment, but if you had seen my backyard lately, you would understand. The paths had nearly disappeared beneath leaves and weeds. My attempt at permaculture had started looking less intentional and more like the plants had quietly taken ownership of the property. Everything was growing into everything else, and I had reached the point where I didn’t know where to begin.
Honestly, my yard looked a little like my life felt.
There were too many things growing at once. Lately, though, something has shifted. My life is still full, and my yard is still wild, but neither feels quite as out of control as it once did.
I’ve been making a lot of elderberry syrup, although some batches turn out more like juice. Either way, it’s delicious.
I freeze the berries, pull them from their tiny stems, and simmer them on the stove with ginger, clove, and cinnamon. Then I strain the deep-purple juice into jars and stir in honey from a friend. The process takes time. It fills the kitchen with the warmest smell and leaves little purple splashes everywhere.
Friends have been stopping by to taste it and asking whether they can buy some. I’ve loved finding another way to use what grows just outside my door.
The elder feels like a mother plant to me. She is protective, generous, and a little unruly. She reaches in every direction and produces more fruit than I expect. She cannot be forced into perfect rows or persuaded to behave like a tidy garden plant.
In that way, she reminds me of myself. I tend to grow in several directions at once too.
I want to make herbal medicine, give facials, teach women to fly fish, write, care for my family, grow food, keep bees, and somehow prevent the paths through the backyard from disappearing.
For a long time, I believed I should be able to care for all of it at once.
This year reminded me that I can’t.
I finally had to remove my apple trees. They had died and were not coming back.
I was much sadder about it than I expected. When we planted them, I imagined everything they might become: shade in the backyard, baskets of apples, and trees that would continue producing for years. Apple pie!
Removing them felt like admitting I had not given them what they needed, but sometimes something can be important to us and still not survive the season we’re in. Sometimes tending a life means recognizing what can no longer be saved.
While the apple trees did not make it, other parts of my life have begun to flourish.
My son, August, started school, and it has actually been going well. After some of the challenges we’ve experienced, I don’t take an easier beginning for granted. There is relief in watching him settle into a routine and feeling a little more steadiness return to our mornings.
Girls Who Fly Fish is growing too. Women are showing up, learning something new, and forming friendships on the water. The group has even begun paying me for some of my work, which feels wonderful after putting so much of myself into building it.
More importantly, I’m no longer trying to do everything alone. I have a team of women beside me who contribute ideas, share the work, and genuinely care about what we are creating. I’m learning how different growth feels when there are other hands tending it with you.
My spa work has shifted in a similar way. I recently moved into a welcoming studio close enough to my house that I can walk there. When I announced the move, people were genuinely excited. Past clients reached out, new appointments came in, and the transition began unfolding more naturally than I expected. The new space already has what I need. I’m surrounded by another kind team, and the arrangement more accurately reflects the value of my work.
I can walk down the street, care for the person on my table, and come home. That simplicity is creating room for the other parts of my life that need me, the fly-fishing community, herbal medicine, my family, the yard, and these Field Notes.
Even Greg’s accident, frightening as it was, changed something between us. Recovery interrupted the ordinary noise of life and reminded us how quickly an ordinary day can become something else entirely. It hasn’t always been easy, but somewhere inside that difficult season, we found our way a little closer to each other.
Recently, a friend came over to help me decide where we might put beehives. I walked him around the backyard, pointing out the plants and explaining what was growing where.
For a moment, I saw the yard through someone else’s eyes.
Yes, it was wild. The permaculture garden had spread beyond its original boundaries, and plenty of areas still needed attention, but the yard was also full of medicine, food, insects, birds, and possibility.
It wasn’t empty.
It wasn’t neglected.
It was alive.
Now that I know how to use the weed eater, I’ve started clearing the paths again. I’m not cutting everything down or forcing the yard to become perfectly tidy. I’m simply creating enough space to walk through it and notice what is there.
Maybe that is what I’m doing with my life too. I used to think gaining control meant working harder, holding everything together, and keeping life from becoming too messy.
Now I wonder if it looks more like this: clearing a path, accepting help, letting something go, and tending what is actually bearing fruit.
My life is still growing wild, but the paths are reappearing, and I can finally see where I want to go.
Today’s Notes
Outside: 73°
Location: Home in South Knoxville
Tending: Elderberries, overgrown paths, new work, and a growing community
Learned: Creating space doesn’t always mean working harder. Sometimes it means accepting help, letting go, and noticing what is already flourishing.
Noticed: The yard is still wild, but the paths are beginning to reappear.
Question I’m Taking Home: What might grow if I stopped trying to control everything and simply tended what needs me most?
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