By Steve Mydelski | Natchez Glen House
The past few months have brought change.
My wife and I have been navigating new professional turns—doors closing, others opening—and that has pushed us to recommit, enthusiastically, to what we believe in.
So we’ve been reaching out: to community leaders, elected officials, nonprofits, developers—anyone whose work touches land, gardens, or the natural world.
Why? Because I’m ready to make more gardens.
A Gardener at the Turning Point
After 20 years of learning and working here at Natchez Glen, and collaborating with some of the finest horticulturists in the world, I’m entering a new phase of my career: one centered on building gardens that scale—not just in size, but in impact.
I’ve designed countless residential gardens over the years—some small, others sprawling. Every one of them intentional. Every one of them built to respond to place, to client, to ecology. And along the way, words like native, natural, and nature have become increasingly part of our collective vocabulary.
That’s a beautiful thing.
Right now, as I write this, a swallowtail butterfly is dancing low across the soil, sipping the morning’s dew. That’s inspiration. So is the midwestern prairie. So is the Tennessee woodland floor in early spring, carpeted with woodland poppy, woodland phlox, and the unforgettable trillium—one of those native plants that, when you see it in its natural habitat, stops you in your tracks.
We want more of that beauty. Developers, planners, even civic leaders—so many people we speak with today are asking: How do we manage the natural world better? How do we design with beauty, without discarding ecology?
That question is the gateway to real transformation.
But to answer it, we have to start with one essential truth.
A Garden Is Not Natural
Gardens are never natural. And that’s not a negative statement—it’s just true.
When we build a garden, we make choices. We act with intention.
“This is a wet spot, let’s plant for moisture here.”
“This corner dries out in summer, let’s give it drought-tolerant species.”
“Let’s place the butterfly-attracting flowers along the path so people can smell them.”
We are choosing what goes where—and why.
That’s gardening.
Nature, by contrast, is indifferent. Nature is the seed dropped by a bird in mid-flight. It’s the chipmunk who buries a walnut and forgets it, allowing a tree to grow 40 years later. Nature is beautiful, but it is also random.
Gardens are not.
Gardens are the result of human design. And whether or not a garden succeeds—that depends entirely on the designer.
If the designer has experience, if they’ve lived with plants, observed how they grow together, compete, or complement one another, then that garden will improve over time. Year three will be better than year one. Maintenance will go down. Diversity will go up.
But if the designer lacks that experience, the garden won’t thrive. Intentions won’t be realized. Butterflies won’t show up. And disillusion sets in.
That’s why I always talk to clients and collaborators about early wins. We need them. They keep people on track, focused, inspired.
And here’s the thing I really want to impress: even native plant gardens aren’t natural. They are plantings. Their success depends on the team that builds them. Not on nature.
Garden Makers, Not Nature Makers
There have been moments in my career when I didn’t have the words for something—until someone else said them first. For me, one of those people is Piet Oudolf.
Piet is arguably more responsible than anyone for popularizing the loose, richly textured, perennial-based planting style we now see everywhere—from Chicago’s Lurie Garden to the High Line in New York.
His work can look effortless. Like he just scattered seeds and nature did the rest. But that’s a trick of his talent.
The truth is: those harmonious moments—the blooming monarda, the nodding grasses, the layered textures catching the light—those aren’t coincidences. They’re the result of a lifetime of living with plants, running a nursery, understanding growth habits, and refining combinations. That is art and craft. That is mastery.
On a recent podcast, Piet said something I’ll never forget:
“We’re not nature makers. We’re garden makers.”
Exactly.
None of us are nature makers. And honestly, I wouldn’t want to be. But I am a gardener. A designer. A head gardener, actually.
I’ve had the rare opportunity in my career to live in both roles. To be the designer who creates the vision—and the head gardener who has to live with its outcomes. And believe me, when the designer version of me makes a mistake—when there’s a bloom gap, or a plant put in the wrong place—it’s the gardener version of me who pays the price. Usually with an extra two hours of sweat under the Tennessee sun.
Layered Over Time, With Intention
As we move toward more public projects—Sanctuary Gardens, city initiatives, community partnerships—I keep coming back to Piet’s words. Because this work can’t be done by tossing a seed mix on the ground and hoping for the best.
It’s a process. It takes time. It takes layers.
You start with structure: plants that win early and build the system. The next year, you add your second layer. Later on, you start thinking about seed banks, ecological succession, and biodiversity.
When you work with someone who knows what they’re doing, the results can be spectacular.
One client’s garden that I took over 18 months ago had completely missed the original brief. Now, just over a year later, it’s exactly what she envisioned.
Gardens can move quickly—if the ambition is there.
The Brief Is Clear
If you’re in city planning, development, or land stewardship, I hope you’ll consider working with someone like me. Whether it’s here in Middle Tennessee or in your own region, we have talented, experienced professionals ready to do this work.
Because we know what the brief is.
We do want better stormwater management.
We do want more butterflies.
We do want our children and grandchildren to see the same flowers we once saw—to preserve those memories, those pollinators, those feelings.
The brief is clear. The path to get there is clear, too.
Not through randomness. But through experience. Through intention.
Through garden making.