To Plow a Garden

"To plow the garden” is to wreck the picture-perfect. The kind of garden that gets praised for its symmetry, its order - where everything grows on cue, watered just enough, trimmed just right. A place that looks neat on the surface, but is controlled to the point of suffocation. Built for display, not for life. To rip through all that hard work may seem unhinged. And it even takes more energy to destroy something polished than to build it that way in the first place. But if the structure was built to confine you, ripping it up is part of getting free.

Forget "sow good seeds, reap good deeds." First, you plow. You rip through the surface. You ruin what was curated. That's the work. Real cultivation starts with disturbance. A break in the surface. A confrontation. Without it, roots don't settle - they hover and hesitate. What grows stays fragile and beauty becomes conditional. That's why I plow.
I'm not here to decorate the garden. I'm here to remake the soil. To plow is to dismantle what was built to keep us small -not with rage, but with intention. It's inner work. Destruction that creates possibility. The goal is not just to grow — but to grow without limitation. To be that one flower that defies its surroundings. The one with bold color, massive petals, thick roots, and the richest pollen -capable of influencing everything in its radius. The one that pushes through the crack and demands more room -unafraid of losing refinement, certain of its conspicuous fragrance.
Becoming one doesn't feel like growth. It feels like being undone slowly by something you're not familiar with until you're shaped differently. Each step is just a part of becoming.
These are the three collections for one motion: