Natural Building Blogs by Sarah

After a lively day in the OBee Garden, Ra paused to admire a familiar, joyful kind of chaos unfolding around her. As she absentmindedly raked her wild, Medusa-like hair into place, she discovered a cherry plum tangled among the curls — an accidental crown that seemed perfectly fitting.

"This garden dresses me now," she thought with a grin.

But the real triumph wasn’t just in the stray plum tree or even the flourishing crops — it was in the way everything was growing: by working with nature, rather than against it.

In the vegetable beds, self-sown Swiss chard babies had popped up everywhere, their bright stems and glossy leaves finding their own preferred spots. Lamb’s lettuce, too, had quietly woven itself into the fabric of the garden, happily growing in corners Ra hadn’t planned for. Instead of carefully plotting rows and controlling every seed, Ra had let the plants choose their own places — and, in doing so, discovered a secret: these free-range seedlings were stronger and more resilient than anything she'd planted by hand.

There were plenty of practical benefits, too.
By letting nature seed itself, Ra no longer needed to buy packets of seeds each year. Instead, she was slowly developing her own strains of crops — varieties naturally adapted to the specific soil, climate, and conditions of the OBee Garden. Over time, these plants would become tougher, more prolific, and better suited to their home.

It was a gentle kind of revolution — a move towards independence from the big seed companies, and towards a truly local, living seed bank.

And there was more than enough to share. With so many young plants popping up freely, Ra could offer handfuls of baby chard, lamb’s lettuce, strawberries, and even rogue potato plants to the volunteers who helped tend the garden.
"Nature provides," she smiled, watching the plants multiply without her lifting much more than a watering can.

Elsewhere, wild mint sprang up through the sheet-mulched paths, scenting every step with a fresh, peppery tang. Bird-sown alpine strawberries and gooseberries nestled themselves in hedgerows and quiet corners, claiming their own small patches without permission — or pesticides. Mange tout peas twined happily amongst wild potatoes, sharing soil and sunshine without complaint. Even the tiny sweetcorn plants, protected by salvaged glass, were starting to stretch upwards, keen to take their place.

The garden wasn't just surviving — it was thriving, and in a way that saved time, money, and effort. No endless digging, no shopping lists of expensive seeds, no fighting against what wanted to grow. Instead, Ra found herself stepping back, observing, and gently encouraging what the land itself had chosen to offer.

And the benefits went beyond the practical.
Working with nature brought joy, surprise, and a deepening sense of partnership with the land. It encouraged biodiversity, invited pollinators, and created a vibrant, living ecosystem that didn’t just feed people — it fed the soul.

As she surveyed the rich patchwork of self-sown plants, Ra realised that this was the true gift of gardening: not domination, but collaboration. By letting go of rigid control, she had gained a garden that was wilder, wiser, and far more generous than she could ever have planned.

With a cherry plum in her hair and a basket full of free seedlings at her side, Ra knew she wouldn’t have it any other way.

If you’re wondering why this blog is now in the third person — it’s because they’re growing into something bigger than just diary notes.
And Ra? That’s the name my grandson gave me — his shortcut to Sarah — and like most good things in the garden, it just took root and grew. 🌱💚