Beauty, Tending, Belonging: Why I Keep Growing Things

Growing things is how I remember who I am.

It is the quiet, steadfast practice that has held my hand through every season of my life, from childhood curiosity to the work I do now in my garden and on the page. When I grow something, even just one small plant, the world narrows to a scale I can hold and, at the same time, somehow expands; I feel both anchored and open, both soothed and alive.

The childlike wonder of beginnings

Every time I tuck a seed into soil or take a cutting from a plant I love, I feel that small, familiar flutter of wonder. Will it take? Will it sulk? What will it become in this particular patch of earth, with this particular light, wind and weather? I still find myself checking far too early for signs of life, scanning the surface for the faintest lift of soil, the first sliver of green that says, I am here.

That moment never gets old. A seed pushing through, a bud swelling, a tendril finding something to hold – these are such modest events, but they land in me like miracles. They remind me of being a child pottering in gardens where no one needed me to impress them, where the whole point was to notice, to touch, to be in conversation with whatever was growing. Growing things returns me to that state, again and again – curious, attuned, unguarded.

Contentment in tending

People sometimes imagine that the satisfaction of gardening lies in the finished picture – the overflowing beds, the baskets of produce, the vases of flowers on the table. For me, the deepest contentment lives in the tending itself. Watering a single pot at the back door. Brushing past lemon verbena and carrying its scent with me into the house. Tying in a wandering stem so it can find the light more easily.

There is a profound relief in doing one small, useful thing for something living – especially on the days when life feels unruly, loud or beyond my control. I don’t need to fix the world; I can deadhead a rose, top up a wicking bed, check the moisture under the mulch with my fingers. Each of these gestures is tiny, almost invisible from a distance, but together they knit a rhythm that steadies me. The garden gives back in beauty and harvest, yes, but it also gives back in pace – in a tempo my nervous system can actually live inside.

Curiosity, exploration and discovery

Growing things has always been my favourite way to ask questions. What happens if I plant garlic between the flowers? If I leave the seedheads standing through winter? If I turn off the irrigation and see who copes? Gardens, by nature, are experiments written in soil and time. I rarely follow the textbook to the letter, yet still, the garden grows – and that gives me courage to keep trying, adjusting, learning on the job.

Curiosity shows up in small daily explorations: a lap of the wicking beds in bitter weather, checking which plants are holding their nerve; a wander along the verge to see what self-seeded while I was busy elsewhere; a notebook scribble about which flower kept the bees busy longest. The garden keeps offering discoveries – a leaf my child holds up like a jewel, a volunteer plant in exactly the right place, a combination of scent and light that makes me stop mid-task and simply breathe. In a noisy world, growing things is how I keep my capacity for surprise alive.

Beauty as a way of staying

There’s a misconception that beauty in the garden is indulgent, something to earn only after the “real work” is done. In my world, beauty is the real work – not in a decorative sense, but as a reason to keep showing up. The shape of morning light through grasses, the hum of bees in borage, the brush of lavender against a path – these are not extras, they are invitations.

When beauty is woven into the everyday, care stops feeling like a chore and becomes almost instinctive. I don’t step outside because I should; I step outside because some part of me longs to see how the fennel is catching the sun today, or whether the sweet peas have finally decided to open. Beauty turns maintenance into ritual, ritual into rhythm, and rhythm into a way of moving through a year that feels intentional and kind.

Growing one thing, and then more

So much of my work rests on a simple, almost disarmingly small idea: grow one thing. Not an entire garden overhaul, not a reinvention of your life, just one honest plant that fits inside the days you already have. A pot of parsley by the gate with a note that says, “Take some.” A single tomato on a sunny sill. A flower whose scent makes your shoulders drop each time you brush past.

For me, the profound power and contentment of growing things lives precisely there – in the way one plant can change how you see light, weather, time and yourself. You start noticing where the frost settles, where the wind sneaks through, which days you have energy to tend and which days a brief look and a deep breath are enough. From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. From the inside, it’s a quiet revolution: a decision to participate, to pay attention, to belong to the living world rather than stand apart from it.

That is where my childlike joy sits now – not in grand gestures, but in these repeatable, seasonal acts of care. A seed. A cutting. A single bed re-mulched before the rain. Each one is a small promise: I will grow one thing. And from that, for me at least, contentment keeps quietly, generously, growing.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

You may want to check out my related content below:

The Medicinal Garden Workshop with Caroline Parker & Natasha Morgan - a journey through the healing power of plants bringing them into your everyday life from your own garden that nurtures the body, mind, and soul.

Why I Grow. Why I Design. Why I Return. - Finding comfort in small daily acts.

Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Romanesco: fractal beauty from the brassica bed

I harvested the first Romanesco heads this week and had to stop and stare.

Those luminous chartreuse spirals feel like a little lesson in pattern and patience. I grow Romanesco because it is delicious, beautiful, and surprisingly resilient in a cool temperate garden like Daylesford.

What is romanesco

Romanesco is a brassica that sits between cauliflower and broccoli. It cooks like cauliflower, with a flavour that is slightly sweeter and nuttier. The texture is tender but holds shape beautifully, which makes it perfect for roasting and for dishes where you want structure on the plate.

Why I plant it

I like plants that serve more than one role. Romanesco offers food, sculptural presence, and a steady supply of leaves for the kitchen (and chooks!). The heads become seasonal markers in the bed, and when they finally appear it feels like the garden offering a small celebration.

How I grow romanesco in a cool temperate garden

Timing

• Sow in late summer to early autumn for spring harvests. In cooler pockets, start seed in trays under cover, then transplant once seedlings are sturdy.

• You can also sow in late winter for late spring to early summer heads if your season allows. Stagger a few sowings to spread the harvest.

Site and soil

• Full sun and rich, living soil are non-negotiable. I prep beds with compost and a light sprinkle of a balanced, organic fertiliser, then mulch after transplanting.

• Brassicas like consistent moisture. My wicking beds hold an even soil profile which helps prevent stress and buttoning. Water at the base rather than overhead to discourage disease.

Spacing

• Give each plant room to develop a full head. I use 45 centimetres between plants and about 45 centimetres between rows. Good airflow is essential.

Protection and care

• Cabbage white butterflies adore brassicas. I keep insect exclusion netting over young plants. If you are not netting, check daily and remove any green caterpillars by hand.

• Feed little and often. I alternate seaweed and compost teas through the season and keep mulch topped up to regulate soil temperature.

• Romanesco appreciates cool nights for head formation. If a sudden warm spell arrives, keep water consistent and shade the bed lightly in the afternoon if needed.

Rotation and companions

• Rotate brassicas yearly to protect soil health and reduce disease.

• Companion plant with dill, calendula, and sweet alyssum to support beneficial insects and soften the edge of the bed. I’ve planted this lots with spinach, lettuce and radicchio for a diverse and thriving polyculture 

Harvest and storage

• Pick when the head is tight, uniform, and firm. Use a sharp knife and keep a few leaves attached to protect the florets.

• Store in the crisper wrapped loosely. Eat within a few days for best flavour.

Small-space tip
Romanesco is a statement plant. If you only have room for one, give it pride of place at the end of a bed or in a large wicking container and underplant with herbs or salad greens.

Kitchen notes and serving suggestions

Roasted romanesco with yoghurt tahini and pomegranate molasses

Break into florets. Toss with extra virgin olive oil, sea salt, and cracked pepper. Add a Middle Eastern spice profile such as cumin, coriander, or za’atar. Roast hot until caramelised at the edges. Finish with a yoghurt and tahini drizzle, a thread of pomegranate molasses, fresh herbs, and toasted nuts.

More ways to serve

• Toss warm florets with anchovy, lemon zest, chilli, and breadcrumbs.

• Steam until just tender, then dress with olive oil, lemon, and parsley for a simple side.

• Cut into small florets for a quick tray bake with chickpeas and red onion.

• Use the leaves as you would kale. Slice and sauté with garlic and a squeeze of lemon.

Cook’s tip

Do not overcook. Romanesco is at its best when the spirals stay intact and there is still a little bite.

Sustainability notes

I like to use the whole plant. The leaves are excellent, the core can be thinly sliced for stir-fries, and any trim goes to the chocks, compost or worm farm. If a plant wants to flower and you do not need seed, let it. The bees will thank you.

Troubleshooting at a glance

• Tiny or loose heads: heat or stress. Keep water steady, mulch well, and plant for the cool end of your season.

• Caterpillars: net early, hand-pick, and encourage beneficial insects with companion flowers.

• Yellowing leaves: a sign of nutrient drawdown. Side-dress with compost and water in.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

I share seasonal tips, behind the scenes at Little Cottage on a Hill, and new resources through my newsletter. Subscribe to receive my entire plant list from the garden as a personal thank you.

You may want to check out my related content below:

Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.

The Power of Noticing: How a Garden Wander Led Me to Morels – Explore the quiet magic of noticing the small wonders that grow in your garden.

If You Could Learn Anything From Me This Year, What Would It Be? – Discover what I’ve been reflecting on the workshops I’ve shared over the years—and dreaming into what might come next.

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

September garden tasks for Australian climates

September brings the first real lift in the garden. Soil is waking up, buds are moving, and it is time to set a steady spring rhythm.

Images by Amber Gardener

Find your climate

Across Australia, the month’s advice is grouped by climate — temperate, cool and alpine, subtropical, tropical and arid. Each region has its own priorities for what to sow now, and whether to direct sow, sow in trays, or transplant.

Shared tasks for all climates

These are the recurring September jobs I keep as a checklist at the potting bench:

• Mulch garden beds while the soil is moist and gradually warming.

• Last chance to plant bare rooted deciduous trees, shrubs and vines before real heat arrives. Container grown plants can go in through spring.

• Plant evergreen shrubs and trees including citrus. This is also a good window to relocate established evergreens.

• Feed fruit trees if you didn’t in late winter. Clean away spent growth on perennial herbaceous plants.

• Propagate by cuttings or layering. Divide established perennials such as chives.

• Tie in berry canes before the spring surge. Plant passionfruit where suitable.

• Harden off August seedlings for 7 to 10 days before planting out.

Seeds and seedlings by climate

Here are quick, climate-specific highlights for sowing and planting in September.

Temperate

Begin warm season crops under cover, and direct sow cool tolerant staples.
Try: tomatoes, basil, climbing or bush beans, cucumber, zucchini, pumpkin, sweet corn, plus greens like lettuce, rocket and silverbeet. Start frost tender plants in trays if frost risk remains.

Cool and alpine

Frosts and even late snow are still possible in higher areas. Favour trays and protected spots for warmth.
Try: beetroot, broccoli, cabbage, cauliflower, lettuce, peas, silverbeet, spring onions and radish. Start warmth lovers such as tomatoes, basil, squash and sweet corn in trays, then transplant once conditions settle.

Subtropical

Conditions are mild to warm with some storm activity along the coast. A wide range is possible.
Try: beans, cucumber, eggplant, capsicum, pumpkin, sweet corn, okra, rockmelon, watermelon, herbs such as basil, dill and coriander, plus sweet potato and taro in suitable sites.

Tropical

Dry season heat builds with rising humidity. Choose crops that relish warmth.
Try: cowpeas, okra, sweet corn, sweet potato, taro, basil and zucchini.

Arid

Days are warming quickly. Work with heat adapted species and keep waterwise practices front of mind.
Try: tomato, eggplant, capsicum, zucchini, pumpkin, rockmelon, watermelon, okra, sweet corn, and herbs such as basil and oregano.

How I work with September

I organise spring sowing in small, frequent batches rather than one big push. It spreads the harvest, reduces risk and keeps the workload more even. If you are in a frost-prone pocket, keep warmth lovers in trays a little longer and plant out once nights are reliably mild.

Quick checklist

• Mulch beds and top up paths.

• Plant or relocate evergreens, and complete any bare root planting.

• Feed fruit trees and tidy perennials.

• Start spring sowing by climate, using trays for warmth lovers where frost is possible.

• Tie berry canes, start passionfruit in suitable areas, and keep pond care light but regular.

Continue your gardening journey with me

If you enjoy this kind of content, my workshops offer more detail and guidance on design, productivity and seasonal care.

If you are building your garden from home right now, my ebooks on Wicking Bed Gardens and Introduction to Backyard Chicken Keeping offer practical step by step guidance that pairs well with the workshops.

You may want to check out my related content below:

Workshops are back. Gathering again for Spring – Discover the rest of the years workshops — from Garden Design, Productive Gardens, Wicking Beds and Medicinal Gardens.

Rooted in Reflection, Growing with Intention – Explore the intentionality behind creating a garden that serves both purpose and beauty.

Stay connected for more seasonal inspiration:
Instagram | Facebook | Gardenstead | LinkedIn | Pinterest | YouTube | Website | Newsletter

Thanks so much for following along.
Natasha xx

Redefining Productive: What it means in my Garden

The word productive is used often in gardening—and just as often misunderstood. In a world that ties productivity to industry, output, or how much we can do or grow in a day, I’ve come to define it quite differently. For me, a productive garden is not about squeezing more in or working harder. It’s about planting that is considered and seasonally responsive. About choosing to cultivate things that nourish life—mine, and the life around me.

Yes, there are the obvious harvests—fruits and vegetables, of course. But for me, a truly productive garden also offers herbs and flowers, medicinal plants and edimentals, aromatics that scent the air and calm the nervous system. It gives me ingredients to cook with, preserve, and share. Plants to distil, to dry, to make into teas, tinctures, or salves. Flowers that feed pollinators and brighten the kitchen table. Even fungi, self-seeded volunteers, or the tiniest harvest of lichen or moss in a shaded pocket—these are all part of it.

One of the things on my bucket list when I created the garden at Oak & Monkey Puzzle was to be able to grow armfuls of fragrant, old-world roses—just huge, beautifully scented blooms you’d never find in a florist. The kind you can only grow yourself. I still remember the first time I filled a fat vase with them. That moment—that experience of abundance, of purpose, of beauty you’ve grown with your own hands—that’s exactly what a productive garden means to me.

Productivity happens here too—in the quiet, layered architecture of a compost bay, where scraps become soil. It’s in the seed-saving, the slow rotation of beds, the gentle work of fungi under the surface. It’s not just about the garden’s offerings—it’s about the systems and relationships that sustain them.

When I speak of a productive garden, I’m speaking about a place that celebrates beauty as much as abundance. A space that gives something back, season after season. One that holds stories, rituals, and rhythms of tending and refining.

It doesn’t need to be big. My current garden is just 515m²—and it’s more productive than my five-acre property ever was. It’s not about scale—it’s about responding to constraint. The smaller space asks more of the design, and it rewards it. Because the constraints are tighter and the thinking has to be sharper, the garden becomes more intentional in response. Every square metre has a purpose, and most plants are multifunctional—chosen for their ability to offer both structure and scent, food and beauty, shade and shelter. It’s a garden that works with me, and for me.

Productivity, to me, is the art of creating something generous. It’s not about striving. It’s not about metrics. It’s not even about output. It’s about living in rhythm with the land—and letting that rhythm shape what the garden becomes.

You may want to check out my related content below:

From Forest Clearing to Town Garden: A Story of Growth – Discover the journey of transforming a space from raw nature to a thriving garden, filled with lessons and inspiration.

Landscape Lingo: The Chelsea Chop and Ways to Have Plants Look Their Best – Learn about the Chelsea Chop technique and other gardening tips to help your plants reach their full potential.

Your Ultimate Gardening Inspiration Resource – Curated by our community for our community, this resource is filled with inspiration and practical tips for your gardening journey.

Creativity, Connection, and Beauty at Babbington Park with Lean Timms– Inspired, grateful, and reminded that making time for creativity and connection isn’t always a luxury—sometimes it’s a necessity.

Want more like this?

If you’re drawn to this way of gardening—where design, purpose, and deep seasonal connection guide what and how we grow—I share more in my upcoming book, due for release in 2026 with Murdoch Books, as well as through my workshops, e-books, and seasonal newsletter.

→ Share this blog with your friends and gardening allies to spread the love and knowledge.

→ Sign up for the newsletter to stay up-to-date on upcoming workshops, garden tips, and exclusive updates from Little Cottage on a Hill.

As always, thanks so much for following along.

Natasha xx

For glimpses into workshops, daily life, and my thoughts from Little Cottage on a Hill, you can find me on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. And if you’d like a more personal update, subscribe to my Newsletter for a monthly note on what’s growing, what’s inspiring me, and what’s next.

Click the links below to stay connected—I’d love to have you along for the journey.

The Garden Remembers You

Sandy McKinley of Acre of Roses, has been part of my world for a long time now. She picked me a ute-load of roses from Acre of Roses for the very first floristry workshop I held at Oak and Monkey Puzzle in 2016. I’ll never forget it—my old red ute overflowing with those fragrant, full-petalled blooms, a gesture that said so much without needing to be said at all. That kind of generosity is just who she is.

Since then, we’ve woven in and out of each other’s lives in that easy way old friends do. We check in every few months—small business chats, big-picture questions, laughing at the chaos and complexity of it all. We’ve run workshops together, leaned on each other in the quieter seasons, and shared a belief in what the garden gives us when we’re paying attention.

Sandy’s writing, like her garden, holds a stillness that invites you in. There’s no instruction manual here—just an offering. A reminder that tending the land is also a way of tending yourself. Her words speak to something I think so many of us feel but struggle to name: the way a garden can hold us when the rest of the world asks too much.

I’m honoured to share her piece, The Garden Remembers You, here on the blog. Alongside it, you’ll find a series of photographs taken recently at Acre of Roses by Amber Gardener (@itsnaturalight). Amber and I met just a few weeks ago at Lean Timms’ photography workshop at Babbington Park, so it feels beautifully full-circle to bring her work into this space too.

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​​The Garden Remembers You

By Sandy McKinley

There is a rhythm in the garden that doesn’t follow the clock.

It’s in the way dew clings to rose petals just after dawn, how birdsong echoes through the mist before the world is awake, and how time itself begins to soften when your hands are deep in rich, cool soil. It is in these moments—barefoot, breathing, becoming—that the garden becomes something far greater than a place to grow things. It becomes a sanctuary. A remembering. A way home to ourselves.

Acre of Roses was never simply a business. It was born from the ache of overextension, from years of striving, achieving, overcommitting—until my body, and my spirit, asked me to stop. Not slow down—stop. And in that stillness, I began again. I turned to the earth, and she turned toward me.

The first rituals were small: writing in a journal while surveying the garden in the early morning light. Sipping a warm tea brewed from the Apothecary Garden’s herbs. Lighting a beeswax candle at dusk as the day began to exhale. Gathering rose petals to infuse in a batch of water kefir—soft, floral, and gently effervescent, a tonic for body and soul. These weren’t grand gestures, but grounded, repetitive acts of care that tethered me to the moment, to place, and to myself.

And I wasn’t alone in this return. Rob Roy—my husband and partner in all things rooted and real—was beside me. Where I found healing in scent, soil, and stillness, he found his rhythm in building, restoring, and shaping beauty from the bones of old structures and salvaged materials. His hands laid the pathways through the rose rows, designed to gently store the heat of spring and coax early blooms. Together, we wove something living. Not just a garden, but a place for others to arrive and exhale.

I began to notice how my nervous system recalibrated with the scent of lemon balm, how May Chang lifted the heaviness in my chest, and how simply brushing against the Miscanthus in the wind felt like being sung to.

Gardens teach presence without preaching it. You cannot rush a rose into bloom, nor will a perennial flower on demand. And so we attune ourselves to their tempo. To the slow push of new shoots. To the decay and letting go of autumn. To the hush of winter, which is not death but restoration. Dormancy is survival. The garden knows.

To me, tending a garden is one of the most radical acts of self-restoration. It is sensual, in the truest sense of the word. Through scent, sound, texture, and temperature, we are drawn back into the body. Back into the breath. It offers us the precious invitation to feel without needing to fix.

At Acre of Roses, guests often arrive tightly wound. I see it in their shoulders, their hurried questions, their need to fill the quiet with plans. And then—something shifts. Sometimes it’s in the cedar hot tub under the stars. Sometimes in the quiet rhythm of swinging gently in cane chairs on the veranda, watching the bees and butterflies dance through shafts of light in the late afternoon garden. Often, it’s in the first truly deep breath taken while wandering through the rose farm at dusk. We call it the Trentham Shrug—that moment when the body remembers it can release.

In this way, the garden is both mirror and medicine. It reveals what’s ready to fall away and what might want to grow next. It reminds us that abundance does not mean more—it means enough. Enough light. Enough water. Enough stillness.

So let this book be your companion as you rediscover your own rituals. As you coax tomatoes from warm beds or tend a single lavender on your windowsill. As you press herbs between pages, or simply press pause.

You don’t have to do it all. The garden doesn’t ask for perfection. It asks for presence.

And in return, it offers us what the modern world so often withholds: silence without loneliness, work without rush, and a path back to wholeness.

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A little note before you go

Sandy’s words aren’t just a guest post—they’ll also appear in my upcoming book, which I’m currently writing and will be released by Murdoch Books in September 2026.

I asked Sandy to contribute to the book because what she wrote here—about restoration, rhythm, the quiet rituals that shape a day—reflects so much of what I believe and value.

As I shift into a slower season of writing, I’ll be pausing in-person workshops for winter. But I’ll still be here—sharing garden notes, behind-the-scenes glimpses, small updates from the writing desk, and moments that don’t quite fit anywhere else.

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Enjoyed this blog?

→ Share this blog with your friends and gardening allies to spread the love and knowledge.

→ Sign up for the newsletter to stay up-to-date on upcoming workshops, garden tips, and exclusive updates from Little Cottage on a Hill.

Thanks, as always, for being here…

Natasha xx

For glimpses into workshops, daily life, and my thoughts from Little Cottage on a Hill, you can find me on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. And if you’d like a more personal update, subscribe to my Newsletter for a monthly note on what’s growing, what’s inspiring me, and what’s next.

Click the links below to stay connected—I’d love to have you along for the journey.

Where Creativity Begins: Notes from a Morning at The Stones

Last Sunday morning, I arrived early at The Stones Open Garden to take photos for the book. It was one of those rare and quiet starts to the day—the kind that gifts you time before the crowds. I wandered with Jeremy as he made those final preparations that gardeners know so well. Tea in hand, camera slung over my shoulder, I felt something I hadn’t felt so poignantly in a while: that deep stillness that invites you to notice, immersed and fully.

We talked about many things—gardens, yes, but also design, backgrounds, and the creative lens through which each of us sees the world. Jeremy and Grant, as some of you may know, both come from textile design backgrounds. That part of their story stayed with me, not just because of the stunning garden they’ve made in a dry, exposed, and often unforgiving landscape—but because of the way their past experience shapes the way they see.

It reminded me of something I used to say often in my university teaching days: never forget where you’ve come from. Your past—no matter how unrelated it may seem to your current work—always finds its way in. It informs how you see, what you value, what you notice. And often, it becomes the very foundation of your unique creative expression.

As Jeremy spoke about working with only six colours in textile design and how that limitation pushed him to create more intentionally, I found myself reflecting on one of the core ideas I hold close: that creativity often flourishes within constraint. Too many choices can be paralysing. But when you’re limited—by climate, materials, space, or experience—you’re forced to dig deeper. To make do. To innovate.

At The Stones, the materials are deliberate and honest: stone, gravel, resilient grey-foliaged plants, succulents that can withstand extremes. It’s not just a design choice—it’s a story of place, necessity, and vision. It’s what happens when your materials are shaped not just by aesthetic desire, but by lived experience.

I sometimes think gardens are the most expressive medium I know. They’re not just about beauty or productivity—they’re a reflection of how we see the world. And every designer, every gardener, brings something of themselves to the process. We’re not just growing plants—we’re growing perspectives. We’re revealing something about how we move through the world and what we pay attention to.

This thread—of creativity, constraint, and inspiration—is one I’ll be pulling at in the book. It’s close to my heart. Not just where we find inspiration, but how we work with what we have. How we shape something deeply personal and expressive out of the limitations of time, climate, budget, experience.

So often, what appears to be a limitation becomes the very thing that gives our work its edge, its depth, its authenticity.

And on that quiet Sunday morning at The Stones, I was reminded all over again that the way we see the world—our lens, our history, our palette—is the start of every great garden. Every great idea.

Thanks for walking beside me as I write and reflect. There’s more to come.

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You may want to check out my related content below:

From Forest Clearing to Town Garden: A Story of Growth – Discover the journey of transforming a space from raw nature to a thriving garden, filled with lessons and inspiration.

Your Ultimate Gardening Inspiration Resource – Curated by our community for our community, this resource is filled with inspiration and practical tips for your gardening journey.

Creativity, Connection, and Beauty at Babbington Park with Lean Timms– Inspired, grateful, and reminded that making time for creativity and connection isn’t always a luxury—sometimes it’s a necessity.

Enjoyed this blog?

→ Share this blog with your friends and gardening allies to spread the love and knowledge.

→ Sign up for the newsletter to stay up-to-date on upcoming workshops, garden tips, and exclusive updates from Little Cottage on a Hill.

Thanks so much for reading and for sharing this garden journey with me.

Natasha xx

For glimpses into workshops, daily life, and my thoughts from Little Cottage on a Hill, you can find me on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. And if you’d like a more personal update, subscribe to my Newsletter for a monthly note on what’s growing, what’s inspiring me, and what’s next.

Click the links below to stay connected—I’d love to have you along for the journey.

Musings on Visiting The Stones Open Garden

Sometimes a place leaves you so full—so utterly brimming with ideas, gratitude, connection, and awe—that you have no choice but to capture it somehow, even if it’s just a voice recording while driving home.

That’s exactly what happened after visiting The Stones Open Garden in Clydesdale, hosted by the incredible Jeremy and Grant, last weekend. I’ve finally had a chance to sit down, transcribe my thoughts, and share them with you. These are the raw, heartfelt musings of a day that filled my cup to overflowing.

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Driving back from The Stones, my head was just so full—of ideas, connections, contentment, and joy.

It was one of those days that reminded me how deeply important it is to carve out time for experiences like this. I met so many wonderful people, including Helena (Spade and Trowel) and Annabelle Reid (seasoned Open Gardens volunteer). I also had the chance to reconnect with my local Friends of Wombat Hill Botanic Gardens—a group that always feels like home.

There’s something about these moments. They are soul-expanding, heart-expanding, mind-expanding. All the things.

A simple morning spent wandering a thoughtfully created garden space… and yet it does so much to realign my spirit.

Jeremy and Grant’s property is nothing short of divine. It’s layered and thoughtful, offering not just beauty but deep generosity in its design. It’s the kind of place you can feel rather than just see. Spaces like theirs remind me of why I do what I do—and why creating environments that hold meaning matters.

As I drove, ideas kept tumbling out. Things I want to explore in my book.

Thoughts about materiality—how plants themselves are a form of materiality, as vital and considered as stone or timber.

How my particular landscape architecture lens shapes the way I see the world, even when I’m thinking about planting, gardening, or seasonal living.

At times, the scale of the book project I’m working on feels overwhelming.

And at other times, like Sunday, it feels absolutely exhilarating.

This book is hard. It’s pulling together everything I have learnt—and everything I’m still learning.

It’s woven from the conversations I have, the people I bump into, the shared love of gardens, of design, of making and craftsmanship.

All these threads are creating a tapestry bigger than just me. They form a web of inspiration, memory, and generosity.

Sunday was also a gentle but powerful reminder of something I have always known in my heart:

People who love gardens—people who love plants, design, making—they tend to be big-hearted, warm, generous souls.

I feel incredibly blessed to be part of that community.

It’s this community—this rich, nurturing, beautiful web—that is also the community who will hold my book in their hands one day.

And I want to give so much back.

Because I wouldn’t be here without them—their lessons, their stories, their quiet acts of sharing and generosity.

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You may want to check out my related content below:

From Forest Clearing to Town Garden: A Story of Growth – Discover the journey of transforming a space from raw nature to a thriving garden, filled with lessons and inspiration.

Your Ultimate Gardening Inspiration Resource – Curated by our community for our community, this resource is filled with inspiration and practical tips for your gardening journey.

Creativity, Connection, and Beauty at Babbington Park with Lean Timms– Inspired, grateful, and reminded that making time for creativity and connection isn’t always a luxury—sometimes it’s a necessity.

Looking for seasonal garden insight and glimpses behind the writing of the book?

→ Share this blog with your friends and gardening allies to spread the love and knowledge.

→ Sign up for the newsletter to stay up-to-date on upcoming workshops, garden tips, and exclusive updates from Little Cottage on a Hill.

Thanks so much for reading and for sharing this garden journey with me.

Natasha xx

For glimpses into workshops, daily life, and my thoughts from Little Cottage on a Hill, you can find me on Instagram, Facebook, LinkedIn, and YouTube. And if you’d like a more personal update, subscribe to my Newsletter for a monthly note on what’s growing, what’s inspiring me, and what’s next.

Click the links below to stay connected—I’d love to have you along for the journey.

The Power of Noticing: How a Garden Wander Led Me to Morels

Wandering the garden with a cup of tea in hand is one of my favourite things to do. It’s quiet, slow, unhurried. Just a gentle loop to see what’s changed. For someone with a busy mind and restless hands, these little garden walks are the times I find myself exhaling. My thoughts begin to quiet, and my eyes tune in. I stop thinking about what I need to do next and start noticing what’s right in front of me.

That’s how I spotted them—small, textured caps pushing up through the mulch in the Wicking Bed Garden. I crouched down for a closer look. They had that unmistakable honeycombed morel look to them, but I’d never found any growing in real life despite hunting for them in all the right local spots. I sent a photo to my friend Speedy (@speedy6579), who’s an absolute encyclopaedia when it comes to all things botanical. Shared it with another of his mycologist friends, the verdict was in. Both quite certain and equally surprised that what I’d found was Morchella rufrobrunnea—the blushing morel.

It’s not every day you find morels growing in a little backyard garden in central Victoria. Daylesford no less.

They popped up right on the edge of the paths between the wicking beds, where I laid woodchips last year - a space that was lawn when we first moved here. Now, those mulched paths are quietly composting down beneath our feet, becoming rich, living soil in place. I top them up each season and let the cycle begin again. It seems the fungi have found what they need in that environment. Speedy’s advice is to leave them to mature in place, and the spores might have a chance of spreading and naturalising here.

The idea of more morels, living right here, makes me ridiculously happy.

I learnt today that all Morchella species are edible once cooked. That in itself feels like a bit of a gift.

When we lived at Oak and Monkey Puzzle, one of my favourite autumn rituals was mushroom foraging with the kids—searching the property and adjoining pine forests for Saffron Milkcaps (Lactarius deliciosus) and Slippery Jacks (Suillus luteus). Saffron and Oliver, despite being so young, became absolute pros at spotting them. With the first good autumn rains, they’d race to find the first saffron-stained stem of the season. It’s one of those memories that sticks

And now, on this tiny 515 square metre block, we’ve found morels. It feels like a kind of full circle. Unexpected, but somehow exactly right. A quiet little nod from the soil.

But what it brought up for me—once more—is how important observation is. Not just in gardening, but in everything. I’ve always been that way. Even as a kid, I was the one watching. Noticing small things. The way someone moved, the way the air changed before rain, the signs that something was about to shift. It’s how I’ve learnt to garden—not through hard and fast rules, but through paying attention. Seasons, cycles, subtle changes. All of it teaches you if you stop to notice.

It’s also where I feel the most content. I know that word gets thrown around, but I mean it in the truest sense. It’s where I feel most ‘myself’, most at peace. I’m not sure how to explain it without it sounding a bit ‘woo woo’, but it’s the closest I get to that feeling of being completely in the right place, at the right time. Part of something bigger. Connected to the ecologies of all living things.

So no, it’s not just a random mushroom sighting. For me, anyway, it’s a serendipitous reminder. That when I slow down, and pay attention—even just for a moment—the world has a way of showing us things we never expected. And that’s where the magic is.

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Workshops are slowing down a little over winter while I focus on writing the book, but if you’d like to keep in touch, the best way is through my monthly newsletter. It’s where I share what’s growing here, what I’m preserving, what I’m learning and so much more—and you’ll be the first to hear when new workshops are announced too.

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As always, it’s so lovely having you here,

Natasha xx

A Festive Season Message

As the festive season settles in, I want to take a moment to share a message of gratitude and reflection with you all. This time of year is a wonderful opportunity to pause, take stock of the year that has been, and find joy in the simple pleasures that surround us—our gardens, our communities, and our shared connection to the land.

This year has been one of growth, learning, and creation. Whether you’ve joined me through workshops or social media, blog or newsletters, explored the stories of Oak & Monkey Puzzle or Little Cottage on a Hill, or simply shared a kind word or message, I want you to know how much your support has meant to me. It’s these moments of connection that make this work and way of life so fulfilling.

As the days grow long and warm here in Daylesford, the garden is at its most generous. There’s something deeply grounding about the rhythm of a productive garden in summer—abundant flowers, ripening produce, and the hum of life all around. It’s a beautiful reminder that nature gifts us moments of respite, joy, and purpose when we care for it with intention.

Join me in glimpses of the garden in its full summer glory. It’s a reflection of the love and care that has gone into its making and a symbol of the kind of life I hope to inspire in others—one of creativity, sustainability, and a deep connection to the spaces we inhabit.

As we move into 2025, I am excited for what lies ahead. From new and super exciting projects (more on that very soon!) to more opportunities to share skills and stories with you, there is so much to look forward to. But for now, let’s embrace the festive spirit - whatever that means for you, celebrate the beauty of the every day, and cherish the company of those we hold dear.

Thank you for being part of this journey with me. I wish you and your loved ones a festive season filled with warmth, laughter, and a touch of garden-inspired magic.

For those of you in Victoria’s fire-affected areas, take care, stay safe, and I am sending you all the positive energy I can muster. Our emergency services face an incredible challenge, and I cannot thank them enough for all that they do. 

With heartfelt gratitude,

Natasha xx

Living Well Spotlight: My Bucket List

Living with Purpose: A Bucket List for Balance and Beauty

As I sit here in the garden of Little Cottage on a Hill, thinking about another ‘calendar’ year soon coming to an end, surrounded by the call of cockatoos and the buzz of busy bees, I reflect on what it means to live well—and my ‘bucket list’.

Living well, to me, is about balance. It’s about finding joy in the simple moments—a freshly harvested tomato still warm from the sun, the comforting ritual of making preserves, or the laughter shared around a table. It’s about creating spaces that nurture not only the land but also the people who connect with it, fostering community, and living with purpose and creativity. For me, living well isn’t about grand gestures or perfection—it’s about being present, noticing the beauty in everyday life, and giving back to the world around me.

My bucket list isn’t a list of lofty ambitions but rather a collection of dreams and intentions that align with these values. It’s a way of planting seeds for the future while savouring the process of nurturing them into being. Here are some of the ideas that inspire me as I think about the year ahead and beyond.

1. Create a Community Garden at Little Cottage on a Hill

At the heart of my vision for Little Cottage on a Hill is the dream of transforming it into a vibrant community garden. A space where people from all walks of life can come together to learn, share, and grow, this productive garden would be a celebration of sustainable practices and the joy of collaboration. I imagine neighbours, families, and visitors gathering to cultivate the land, exchanging ideas, skills, and stories.

It would be a place to foster connection—with each other and the landscape we all share. The good news is that this bucket list item is already well on its way to being achieved! Come join me for a workshop!

2. Spotting a Blue-Banded Bee

One dream I’m holding close is to spot a blue-banded bee in my garden. This tiny yet remarkable pollinator would be a wonderful marker of the growing biodiversity that’s been nurtured by creating a verge garden here at Little Cottage on a Hill. The verge garden has been a labour of love—designed to invite native wildlife, support pollinators, and contribute to the ecological health of the area.

As part of this journey, I’ve begun documenting all the new birds and insects I see for the first time in the garden. It’s a mindful practice that helps me notice and appreciate each visitor, from vibrant parrots to delicate native bees. Capturing these moments in photos feels like a visual diary, a quiet celebration of the life that’s flourishing here. Seeing a blue-banded bee in one of these snapshots would feel like a milestone—a sign that the garden is thriving, and that these small, intentional efforts are making a real difference.

A while back I spotted a Cloak and Dagger bee in Lily Langham’s garden and gosh it was something! 

3. Considering Writing My First Book

I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a book for some time now, and it’s becoming something I’m seriously considering. The focus would be on productive gardening, sharing practical advice, design principles, and thoughtful reflections on creating beautiful, sustainable spaces that provide nourishment and joy. It’s still very much in the ideas phase, but I envision it as a guide that inspires others to embrace the concept of living well through their own gardens. For now, I’m letting the idea take root and grow, much like a seed planted in rich soil.

4. Host a Seasonal Preserving Workshop Series

One of the dreams I’m bringing to life is hosting a seasonal preserving workshop series right here at Little Cottage on a Hill. Preserving the seasons is something I’m deeply passionate about—it’s a way of capturing the abundance of the garden and turning it into something beautiful and lasting.

These workshops will celebrate the rhythm of the year, teaching participants how to create their own pantry filled with seasonal preserves. From the bright tang of citrus marmalade in winter to the rich warmth of tomato passata in summer, each session will reflect the unique produce of the season.

It’s more than a workshop—it’s an opportunity to connect with others, share skills, and honour the joy of growing and preserving food. If this sounds like something you’d love to experience, visit Preserving the Seasons with Natasha Morgan for details and bookings. I can’t wait to tick this bucket list item off my list, welcome you to Little Cottage on a Hill, and share this timeless craft with you!

Planting Seeds for the Future

My bucket list is less about achieving and more about intention. It’s about planting seeds—not just in the soil but in the heart. It’s about nurturing these dreams with care, savouring the process of their growth, and embracing the beauty of the everyday along the way.

Here’s to the dreams we hold, the seeds we plant, and the joy we find in living well.

Forest Bathing for Creative Self-Care

Forest Bathing: Finding Peace in the Whispering Trees

Over the years, my love for gardens, plants, and everything that grows wild and untamed has taken me down many paths. From tending my sprawling 5-acre backyard to now living on a smaller block with Wombat Hill Botanic Gardens as my cherished neighbour, I’ve come to see nature not merely as a backdrop but as a constant, steadfast presence—always there, always generous.

It’s here, among Wombat Hill’s towering trees and winding paths, that I’ve embraced the quiet, healing art of shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing. This practice doesn’t involve plunging into streams or lakes; it’s about immersing yourself in the forest atmosphere—breathing it in, letting its sounds, scents, and textures restore and soothe. It’s an invitation to slow down, to simply be, guided by curiosity and calm.

The Healing Power of Trees

I’ve always felt a deep connection to woodlands. So when life called for a change in my living space, I didn’t feel like I was leaving my 5-acre property behind. Instead, I saw it as an opportunity to find a new way to stay close to what I love.

Wombat Hill Botanic Gardens has become my sanctuary—not mine to own, but a place that cradles a piece of my heart. Most days, you’ll find me wandering its paths, listening to birdsong threading through the trees. The crunch of leaves beneath my feet, the rustle of branches, the cool shadows interrupted by golden shafts of light—it all weaves into a symphony that calms and restores.

Gardens: Places to Be Inhabited

Gardens, to me, are not just aesthetically pleasing spaces—they are places to be lived in. They are where life reveals itself in unhurried, authentic ways. In the garden, I feel most attuned to life’s rhythms—the cycles of growth, bloom, and quiet decay that gently mark the passage of time.

A garden isn’t just a place to look at; it’s a space to experience, to breathe, to truly live within. There’s a fulfilment that comes with tending a garden, watching how it evolves with each season’s care. It’s a quiet reminder that life is always shifting, growing, transforming.

When I walk through Wombat Hill, I carry that same feeling—a sense of being part of something larger, a pulse beneath the surface that beats steady and true.

Bringing Shinrin-Yoku to Life

Forest bathing doesn’t demand grand gestures or lengthy journeys into remote wilderness. It can happen in the smallest patch of green or a beloved park. All it asks is that you pause, let go of the rush, and allow your senses to guide you.

The next time you find yourself near trees, take a moment to slow down. Leave your phone behind. Instead, listen for the rustle of leaves, the soft hum of insects, or the distant call of a bird. Breathe deeply, letting the scent of earth and foliage settle within you. Notice the textures, the shifting colours, and the way sunlight dances across the bark of a tree. Let the moment hold you—calm, steady, and alive.

Reconnecting with Nature, Reconnecting with Ourselves

In our hurried world, it’s easy to feel untethered, swept along by endless tasks, deadlines, and screens. Forest bathing offers a gentle way back—a quiet invitation to reconnect, not just with nature, but with ourselves.

Walking among the trees, I’m reminded of their quiet strength. They’ve weathered countless seasons, standing firm through storms and basking in sunshine. In their timeless resilience, I find my own—a grounding reminder that, like them, we can remain steady and rooted, no matter what life brings.

Pause and Breathe: Nature’s Simple Invitation

As the busyness of life often sweeps us along, forest bathing offers a chance to step away and simply be. It doesn’t require an expansive forest—just a patch of green, a cluster of trees, or even your own garden can provide what you need.

The next time you’re near trees, I encourage you to pause:

• Take a deep breath and let the scents of earth and leaves settle within you.

• Listen to the rustle of branches, the birdsong, or the hum of insects.

• Notice the textures of bark and leaves, the play of light, and the shifting colours.

These small moments, though quiet, have a profound way of centring us—of grounding us in a slower rhythm that hums beneath the rush of daily life.

Here’s to the grounding whispers of nature, the steadying presence of trees, and the gift of time to pause and simply breathe. May this season bring you moments of peace and connection, wherever you are.

Oak & Monkey Puzzle: A Hub of Creativity, Community, and Connection

In 2014, I embarked on a life-changing journey that brought me to Spargo Creek, a small hamlet nestled within the Central Victorian Highlands. This tree change wasn’t just a move to the country; it was a deeply rooted desire to reconnect with nature and live a life that merged creativity, collaboration, and sustainability. Oak & Monkey Puzzle, the five-acre property we purchased, became the canvas for my vision—a vision that blended my expertise in landscape architecture, horticulture, and my passion for flowers, produce, preserving and creating spaces where people could gather, learn, and be inspired.

The property’s name was inspired by the grand colonial trees that graced the landscape, including towering Oaks and a majestic Monkey Puzzle tree. Their presence was a reminder of the property’s rich Gold Rush era history as the old Spargo Creek Post Office, O’Connells’s General Store, and recreation reserve. This place had long been a hub for community and exchange, and I felt drawn to that legacy. It was here that I could see all my passions—design, nature, productive gardening and teaching—coming together in one place. Oak & Monkey Puzzle became the canvas for a new way of life, a life and business created from a hybrid of passions, deeply connected to the land and a yearning for a simpler yet richer way of living.

Aspirations and Inspirations

Oak & Monkey Puzzle was more than just a property; it was a living, breathing manifestation of my aspirations. I wanted to create a place that would bring people together—a space where artisans, designers, and gardeners could collaborate and share their knowledge. My inspiration for this venture stemmed from years of working on large-scale public projects, most notably The Australian Garden (Stage 2) at the Royal Botanic Gardens Cranbourne. After spending years in the public realm design world, I longed for a more personal, intimate connection with the land, one that would allow me to explore my creative passions while building a sense of community.

The property’s almost derelict state was no deterrent; I only saw its endless potential. With the Wombat State Forest as a backdrop, the land was rich with opportunity, waiting to be transformed into productive gardens, cut flower terraces, and orchard spaces. I envisioned Oak & Monkey Puzzle as a place where people could come to experience the beauty of nature, the joys of growing their own food, and the fulfilment that comes from creative expression.

The Design and Construction Process

The creation of Oak & Monkey Puzzle was a labour of love and a testament to the power of clever and considered design and a bucketload of drive, elbow grease and passion. My approach was deeply influenced by the landscape architecture design principles I had honed and taught a generation of university students throughout my career. The first step was to experience the space and truly get to know it—to understand its aspect (sunny and shaded spaces and orientation to the sun), climate, geology, topography, soil conditions and more. This was crucial in determining how the garden would take shape, ensuring that every element worked harmoniously with the land and the seasons.

From there, I focused on creating spaces that would evolve with the workshop and bespoke event offerings and natural rhythms of the seasons. The garden became a place of discovery, shaped by multi-functional spaces that expanded and contracted depending on how it was inhabited, offering new experiences throughout the year. Every area was thoughtfully planned, from the productive gardens that provided fresh produce to the outdoor rooms that extended the living space beyond the house. The lawn axis, connecting the gardens to the forest, served as a central feature, grounding the entire property in its natural surroundings.

Building a Community

Oak & Monkey Puzzle wasn’t just about creating a beautiful garden—it was about fostering a deep sense of self, and community. From the very beginning, I envisioned this space as a reflection of my greatest sources of personal joy and contentment, as well as a hub for collaboration, learning, and connection. I hosted workshops on garden design, floristry, styling, drystone walling and more, inviting local artisans and craftspeople to share their skills and life-long passions. These workshops became more than just educational experiences—they were opportunities for people to gather, exchange ideas, and form lasting connections.

The community that grew around Oak & Monkey Puzzle mirrored the values I hold close—creativity, sustainability, and collaboration. It became a place where conversations flowed as naturally as the changing seasons in the garden, and where an ethos of generosity was at the heart of every interaction. The property evolved into a destination for those seeking inspiration, knowledge, and a deeper connection to nature.

A Place of Transformation

Over the years, Oak & Monkey Puzzle transformed from a near-derelict property into a thriving, productive landscape that embodied my vision of ‘living well’. It was a place where we grew our own food, preserved the harvest, and shared the bounty with the local community. The property’s history as a post office and general store added to its charm, and I felt privileged to breathe new life into it. The gardens evolved with the seasons, offering something new with each passing year. It was a space that was constantly in motion, much like the creative process itself.

Legacy and Moving Forward

After nearly a decade at Oak & Monkey Puzzle, my family and I made the decision to move on. The lessons I learned during those years—the importance of living in tune with the land, the power of community, and the beauty of sustainable design—continue to guide me in my new chapter at Little Cottage on a Hill. Oak & Monkey Puzzle will always hold a special place in my heart as the foundation of my journey into sustainable living and community collaboration, as well as creating a life that's aligned with my truest self.

Today, as I keep exploring what it means to live a life that truly makes my heart sing, and as I continue to share my knowledge through workshops and writing (oh and online courses… stay tuned!), the spirit of Oak & Monkey Puzzle lives on. It was a place of transformation, creativity, and connection, and its legacy continues to inspire everything I do.