The Return of the Light

Sunday, December 21, was the Winter Solstice: a date that marks the longest night of the year. It was also our first celebration of Luminous, a special event in The Lot Next Door.

This was our first year for Luminous. And we just celebrated the first-year anniversary of The Lot itself a few weeks ago in mid-November during our first holiday market. Unsettlingly, that moment already feels like a lifetime ago. In reality, it’s been four weeks to the day. (And what a month it’s been!)

I thought about framing this note in the context of “then and now, before and after, the Botany of one year ago vs. today.” But I don’t actually believe that’s the healthiest way to look at it anymore.

I think the main story this year isn’t about comparisons.
It’s about lessons.

For years, I’ve believed that the lessons we learn while caring for plants transcend the soil. I’ve seen it and lived it too many times for it to be a fluke. I’ve witnessed it in others.

Countless times.

It’s why I continue to believe, more fervently than ever perhaps, that Botany & Co.’s mission is and will remain empowering more people to grow more plants in more places.

Places grounded in plants are powerful. Plants transform “spaces” into “places” – something we witnessed, yet again, during Luminous. For the record, I’m writing this after midnight, just a few hours after the conclusion of the event. We haven’t done a full team debrief yet, we still have things to clean up and put away. I’m exhausted, and by all sane measures should be comatose in bed, fast asleep, alarm deactived for tomorrow. (Yes, I checked it twice.)

But I can’t sleep – not quite yet. Thoughts that have been swirling for weeks suddenly came in to sharp focus after tonight’s event, and it feels like the time to begin sharing them.

I, along with Botany, and I hope all of you, have learned so many new things this year, and I’ve clarified so much, too. Maybe part of the reason 2025 has been “the year that’s felt like a decade” comes down to the sheer volume of once-in-a-lifetime-level shifts that happened this year.

There were shifts in our country, our communities, and our world. The exhaustion is warranted. It seems we’re all carrying more than we used to. And perhaps that’s a note for another day…

There were also shifts in our business: spinning off one and opening two new ones.

Eight words.

Eight, stressful, survival-instinct, isolation-hyperfocus-inducing, creative chaos, systems-building, SOP-obsessed, dropped balls and plates in the air, anxiety-ridden, and joy-filled words.

But – why did this happen? What brought about this change?

It began just about a year ago, when for the very first time I asked myself: “Did I move closer to myself or further away this year?” The answers unlocked a lot of clarity.

Then came the thrilling part – visioning. Let’s be honest, it’s one of my favorite parts of this “job” I’ve managed to build for myself, and I don’t do it nearly as much as I’d like and should. Eh hem… another lesson.

Applying lessons learned forward, and running them through the “closer to myself/further from myself” filter, brought me to learn and accept and embrace an identity as a farmer.

Until this year, I didn’t feel I belonged to that word. It didn’t feel like a good fit, not yet at least. I’ll be frank: “CEO” has never felt like a comfortable title for me in this business: too corporate. Even “founder” sometimes feels awkward or inflated somehow, even though it’s technically accurate. “Owner” – never liked it, but it resonates for a lot of people in that it has a very clear definition and common interpretation: from a point of building shared understanding, it’s effective. Years ago, “Garden Director” and “Horticulturist” were among my professional titles, and those worked and made sense – until they didn’t.

None of them has the power of “farmer” though. The staying power, the ability to put down deep, permanent, anchoring roots. To firmly, knowingly, and lovingly refer to the places we’re cultivating as home, and to know that every season we continue to pour love into the spaces we cultivate, the more abundance we’ll have to share with our community. To grow something beautiful to share with someone else: simply and elegantly, and for no other reason than beauty deserves to be shared.

This, is farming. And, being a farmer.

And also, a gardener.

One year ago, when I was saying yes to taking this next (and, certainly not first) step toward becoming a farmer, I was also saying yes to becoming a co-host of Cultivating Place.

Joining the “CP Universe,” as I lovingly call it, has brought me into conversation with some of the most fascinating, creative, clarified, and kind people. It’s reminded me – at a time in my life, and the world, when I’ve needed it most – people who care for plants really are some of the absolute best people on this planet.

It also reminded me that we need more of us, people caring for plants in more places, that is.

Then Jennifer, the host and founder of the Cultivating Place podcast and subsequent projects, hit me with a powerful idea: gardeners are a keystone species.

If you’re not familiar with the idea, a keystone species is an ecological term for plants that support a wide array of creatures, other plants, and natural systems: remove one of them, and entire systems collapse. Cultivate them, and communities thrive.

In an era of rapid and alarming insect and wildlife decline, planting and growing more keystone plants is a radical and beautiful method for healing our ecologies and communities. It’s a way for us to feel empowered and have real, tangible impact.

Gardeners, especially many new gardeners today, are coming to grow plants from this place: a craving for empowerment, something hands-on, something away from technology, “the grind,” and noise this world often generates to distract and extract to the fullest.

Gardening, and caring for plants in general, really – reminds us we’re connected, while helping us to connect. It also reminds us that abundance begets abundance. In a world designed to make us believe that scarcity and competition are the only reality, caring for plants reminds us the exact opposite is true.

We – us gardeners – as we turn our “spaces” into vibrant “places” are a moving, purposeful, intentional agent with incredible power to effect real change, often right outside our door. As more gardeners choose keystone plants for their gardens, we collectively amplify the benefits of these plants, becoming an abundance multiplier.

Gardeners are indeed a keystone species, an idea also echoed in my conversation with Kelly Norris back in April with Cultivating Place.

Another wild idea this year: local and independent businesses are also keystone species.

They perform the same function of plants and gardeners: they strengthen and hold vital systems that allow neighborhoods to thrive. This is the actual power of “brick and mortar.”

When you shop local, you’re participating in an act of gardening – you’re cultivating the type of community you want to call home, along with us.

When you begin to notice the connections – how pairing one keystone species with another, and another, and layering and deepening and diversifying only makes things more beautiful, healthy, and prosperous, you begin to realize the power we truly hold.

I’ll say it again – we need more of us. Urgently, and now. Plants, gardeners, businesses: entire ecosystems. There’s more that could be shared here – another topic for the new year, perhaps?

All this to say: “storyteller” feels more a part of me today than it did a year ago, too. Cultivating Place has brought me closer to new ideas, theories, practices, methodologies, mindsets, and beliefs, all within the world of plants. I’ve been hosting an episode a month, and I feel I’ve barely scratched the surface. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once. I love it, and I’ll be co-hosting a second year in 2026 along with Jennifer and Abra. I hope you’ll follow along when you can.

As 2025 ends, a year that’s felt like a decade (I think perhaps true for many of us?) I’m also thinking about what I want to take forward, and also what I want to leave behind. It’s the season for one of my favorite winter garden projects: winter pruning.

In winter pruning, you’re focused on structure, ensuring a healthy and effective branch architecture for the long-term health and success of each long-lived plant. It’s a moment to see the world in X-ray for a few months, and you get to remake the skeleton you’ll grow into in the year to come. Winter pruning requires you to live in the future, to dream, to imagine, and to predict what could be. With every cut we’re setting a new intention, focusing energy and effort, honing form, function, and strength.

As I look into 2026, I’m excited to keep sharing stories with you. Whether that’s through Cultivating Place or here, on the Botany Blog, a place I’ve been absent from most of this year due to all of the above. I do miss writing to you, and I’m excited to dedicate the time to doing it more often. I’ve also found a way to interact with Instagram that feels joyful again.

I’m thrilled to be dreaming bigger and longer-term about The Field, our urban farm across the street from our two storefronts. There’s so much germinating here and soon – very soon – you’ll be hearing more about it. That’s a story for January.

I’m excited to double down on The Lot Next Door and continue cultivating the outdoor classroom/micro-nursery I’ve dreamed of for years. A quirky little plant shop spot, outdoors, surrounded by gardens, filled with knowledge and plants you’ve never heard of (along with the ones you know and love), all while buzzing with community (yes, a double meaning). This week I filed our first growers permit application with the Indiana DNR so that we can begin cultivating more of our own plants to share, something you’ve been asking us about (and I’ve been dreaming about) for years. It’s finally happening.

I’m ready to reclaim my personal life (at least a little bit). 2025 swung the pendulum hard toward growth and change, and that burst of energy and effort isn’t sustainable. Rest and recharge must be a more regular part of my rhythm this year. Friends, who are they, what are those?! Actually, these patterns of rest and recharge will infuse all of Botany & Co. this year.

Here’s why, and it’s one of the biggest lessons from 2025.

There is power in seasonality. It grounds us and reminds us that we’re a part of something real, worthy, valuable, timeless, and worth fighting for. Seasonality re-anchors us in a rhythm outside the unnatural, constant hum of capitalism with its efficiencies, AI, consumption, and unchecked growth. Seasonality reminds us to slow down and to live purposefully, intentionally, and presently.  

As we were preparing for Luminous, two bald eagles were sighted by my keen-eyed mom, who was there with my dad helping us set up. They were gliding high overhead, almost imperceptible. I tried to catch them on my phone, and after growing frustrated with trying to get the camera to focus, I realized – yet again – I was letting the technology get the better of me.

I put the phone away, looked up until my neck hurt, and then went back to work.

Worth it. Highly recommend. Look up more often.  

Luminous was meant to mark the turning of a season: the return of the light, and a celebration of the dark. A healthy, natural, healing, helpful darkness. Another rhythm. Undeterred, consistent, rationale, and real.

The energy was so good at Luminous, and I appreciate everyone who showed up, smiled, and shared your joy with us. When you pour in to us, our natural reaction is to figure out how we can share that abundance forward, and we’re already dreaming about next year’s Winter Solstice.

I’ll be paying even closer attention to seasonality this year: how and when it shifts, and the changes that come along with it.

This practice will intersect everything: farming, storytelling, growing, gardening, and “CEO-ing”. Which reminds me, the Sandhill Cranes will be migrating back before we know it. Like the eagles, they glide high, on air currents, circling and weaving, their distinct calls echoing on clear-aired, calm days. This is the season we have to look forward to after a moment of deep rest, and I’m already excited for it.

Look up more often.

Cheers to another year of growing more plants in more places, plant lovers. Thanks for being with us on this wild, crazy journey of being a plant-based business in the heart of South Bend’s near Northwest Neighborhood. Welcome home, friends.

We’ll see you soon.

With Gratitude,

Ben | Farmer, Founder, “CEO”