Hello Everyone.

I am the kind of gardener who does not mind sharing my yard with deer, rabbits, chipmunks, and squirrels. All animals are welcome. I may yell at them and curse a little when the third planting of peas are nipped on the vine, but all in all, my garden is an ark, and I am pleased to support all the creatures. Yet most I don't see at any other time except winter, when they leave behind tracks.

A week ago, I followed fox tracks in my backyard, tiny paw prints that led straight through the kitchen garden, behind the garden shed, and into the woods. It had snowed the night before, and as I followed these tracks, I could see a whole scenario unfolding in the snow during the night. There were squirrel prints across the top of the shed, crow feet in the compost pile, rabbit paws circling the last kale, and voles tunneling everywhere. It gives me the thrill to know that my yard provides a natural habitat for wild creatures to interact and thrive.

I garden because it keeps me intimately connected to my landscape. Like most gardeners, I've learned to engage by sitting quietly, listening intently, and inhaling deeply in the winter and summer. Whether lying under a tree or perched on a bench, engaging with nature sends a silent message that all are welcome. Every action is connected to another, and when I claimed this piece of land to make a garden, the balance and order of things were disturbed. As gardeners, that is what we do. Yet we can do better.

Winter brings everything into perspective, allowing us to ponder the landscape and our place in it. Birds flutter at the feeder, and I have counted 20 species, yet the animals that track through my garden at night are primarily mysterious and unknown. I can only identify by their tracks and the patterns; some skim along the edges, others straight across with a determined gait.

The other night after dinner, I carried the kitchen scraps to the compost, walking in the dark lit faintly by moonlight. I reached in with the coffee grounds, banana peels, and stale bread, noticing a large round object in the corner.

I did not bring a flashlight; I reached for a stick and gently prodded to see if it was alive. Indeed, a large opossum stirred out of a deep slumber and opened its eyes to stare into mine. At first, I was startled, but the connection was made. I was pleased that my fruit and vegetable scraps provided a little nourishment when not much else was available.

In the depths of winter, I look down at tracks in the snow—stories that only a winter landscape will reveal. When we build a healthy natural landscape, it feeds us in ways that go beyond growing food. Gardeners seek out native plants to support pollinators and birds but often build fences to keep out the wildlife. I understand, yet the true sign of a healthy landscape is when the patterns in the snow reveal the grand cycle of life that parades through our yards. I know not everyone agrees.

But this is what being a gardener has taught me. To be at peace when voles tunnel under the soil, knowing they have a good chance of feeding the fox; watching the squirrel attack the bird feeder because they leave seeds below for the ground feeders; a cozy den of rabbits in the underbrush is building up the army for spring, and in defense I’ll plant twice as much. All is fine because it is winter. Most gardeners complain, but I say — bring it on, and consider the alternative.

From my garden to yours,

Ellen O.

Author of The New Heirloom Garden, The Complete Kitchen Garden, and other books for cooks who garden. www.ellenogden.com