Notes from a Process Gardener
Pollinator Gardens as Symbols of Hope
Inspired by the philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead
Notes from a Process Gardener
This spring, in light of the tensions in the world and in my own country, I'm planting a pollinator garden. I'm growing milkweed for the monarchs, bee balm for the hummingbirds, lavender for the bees, and sunflowers to lift their golden heads toward the sky. I'm planting not just for beauty, but for relationship—for the invisible threads that connect one life to another.
In a time when so much feels sealed off—divided by ideology, fear, and isolation—I want to make space for crossing paths, for pollination, for mutual becoming. The garden is my quiet protest against disconnection. It is also my affirmation that life, even now, leans toward interdependence.
Like most gardeners, I’ve learned that a garden is only as alive as its relationships. A flower may be lovely on its own, but without pollination—without bees, butterflies, breezes, and birds—there is no fruit. No renewal. No future. What looks like flourishing can, in truth, be a kind of quiet decay.
It is the crossing of boundaries—pollen from one flower carried to another—that brings about the miracle of life. The garden becomes something more than the sum of its parts. It is enlivened by difference, by motion, by contact. Beauty becomes fruitfulness. Stillness becomes song.
What’s true for gardens, I believe, is also true for societies—and for souls.
Drawing from the process philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead, we might say that reality itself is made of relationships. Each moment of experience is a synthesis of the past, a fresh decision in the present, and an openness to the future. Life is not made of isolated substances but of dynamic becomings. The world is not a static machine, but a living, breathing process.
In this light, what we need today—perhaps more than ever—are cross-pollinating societies: societies that are open to influence from the outside, willing to listen to voices beyond their borders, eager to learn from other ways of living, thinking, and being. These societies do not fear difference; they welcome it. They are porous, relational, and alive to novelty. They understand, at a deep level, that value often arises from contrast and encounter.
By contrast, sealed societies are like terrariums—self-contained, controlled, and carefully protected from outside influence. They may be beautiful in their way, but they are closed. They resist change. They fear contamination. They prefer repetition to surprise, familiarity to transformation. In Whitehead’s terms, they refuse the lure of the new and cling to inherited forms, even when those forms no longer serve life.
But it is not only societies that can be sealed or cross-pollinating. We, too, as individuals, face this choice. Are we open to being influenced by others? Are we willing to let our certainties be questioned, our imaginations expanded, our hearts reshaped? Or do we live in sealed terrariums of belief, isolated by fear or habit, untouched by the breezes of other lives?
To live in a cross-pollinating way is to recognize that identity is not lost through contact—it is deepened. We become more fully ourselves through relationship. We are, as Whitehead might say, “with” one another at every moment, always in the process of becoming in response to the world around us.
And we are not alone in that process. At every moment, we are accompanied by the lure of the divine—a lure toward richer experience, deeper beauty, and more expansive love.
So, as a process gardener, I offer this reflection: let us be people who cross-pollinate. Let our societies be open fields, not sealed chambers. Let our lives be shaped by encounters that challenge us, renew us, and invite us into greater richness of experience.
We do not flourish alone.
Neither do flowers.
Let the breezes blow. Let the bees work. Let us become, together.
In a time when so much feels sealed off—divided by ideology, fear, and isolation—I want to make space for crossing paths, for pollination, for mutual becoming. The garden is my quiet protest against disconnection. It is also my affirmation that life, even now, leans toward interdependence.
Like most gardeners, I’ve learned that a garden is only as alive as its relationships. A flower may be lovely on its own, but without pollination—without bees, butterflies, breezes, and birds—there is no fruit. No renewal. No future. What looks like flourishing can, in truth, be a kind of quiet decay.
It is the crossing of boundaries—pollen from one flower carried to another—that brings about the miracle of life. The garden becomes something more than the sum of its parts. It is enlivened by difference, by motion, by contact. Beauty becomes fruitfulness. Stillness becomes song.
What’s true for gardens, I believe, is also true for societies—and for souls.
Drawing from the process philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead, we might say that reality itself is made of relationships. Each moment of experience is a synthesis of the past, a fresh decision in the present, and an openness to the future. Life is not made of isolated substances but of dynamic becomings. The world is not a static machine, but a living, breathing process.
In this light, what we need today—perhaps more than ever—are cross-pollinating societies: societies that are open to influence from the outside, willing to listen to voices beyond their borders, eager to learn from other ways of living, thinking, and being. These societies do not fear difference; they welcome it. They are porous, relational, and alive to novelty. They understand, at a deep level, that value often arises from contrast and encounter.
By contrast, sealed societies are like terrariums—self-contained, controlled, and carefully protected from outside influence. They may be beautiful in their way, but they are closed. They resist change. They fear contamination. They prefer repetition to surprise, familiarity to transformation. In Whitehead’s terms, they refuse the lure of the new and cling to inherited forms, even when those forms no longer serve life.
But it is not only societies that can be sealed or cross-pollinating. We, too, as individuals, face this choice. Are we open to being influenced by others? Are we willing to let our certainties be questioned, our imaginations expanded, our hearts reshaped? Or do we live in sealed terrariums of belief, isolated by fear or habit, untouched by the breezes of other lives?
To live in a cross-pollinating way is to recognize that identity is not lost through contact—it is deepened. We become more fully ourselves through relationship. We are, as Whitehead might say, “with” one another at every moment, always in the process of becoming in response to the world around us.
And we are not alone in that process. At every moment, we are accompanied by the lure of the divine—a lure toward richer experience, deeper beauty, and more expansive love.
So, as a process gardener, I offer this reflection: let us be people who cross-pollinate. Let our societies be open fields, not sealed chambers. Let our lives be shaped by encounters that challenge us, renew us, and invite us into greater richness of experience.
We do not flourish alone.
Neither do flowers.
Let the breezes blow. Let the bees work. Let us become, together.
Yes to the New
Whitehead described each moment of becoming—each actual occasion—as a process of concrescence: the gathering together of many influences from the past into a unified experience in the present. This process is not passive. It is creative. It involves selection, feeling, integration, and decision. In this sense, every act of becoming is a creative response to the world—a moment of self-creation. And the richest moments of concrescence are those that include the influence of others: of different voices, perspectives, histories, and hopes.
But it is not only the past that shapes our becoming. There is also a forward pull—what Whitehead called the initial aim. In process theology, this initial aim is God's presence in our lives: not as a controlling force, but as a lure. God is that gentle, persuasive call toward novelty, toward beauty, toward wholeness. God is the invitation within each moment to become more than what we have been—to grow, to reach outward, to love more deeply.
To be open to cross-pollination is to be open to this divine lure. It is to say yes to transformation. Yes to the stranger. Yes to the new.
But it is not only the past that shapes our becoming. There is also a forward pull—what Whitehead called the initial aim. In process theology, this initial aim is God's presence in our lives: not as a controlling force, but as a lure. God is that gentle, persuasive call toward novelty, toward beauty, toward wholeness. God is the invitation within each moment to become more than what we have been—to grow, to reach outward, to love more deeply.
To be open to cross-pollination is to be open to this divine lure. It is to say yes to transformation. Yes to the stranger. Yes to the new.
How to Grow a Pollinator Garden
Planting for the more-than-human world
It doesn’t take much to begin—a bit of soil, some sunlight, and the decision to share your space with the life around you. That’s really what a pollinator garden is: an invitation. It says to the bees and butterflies, the hummingbirds and moths, “You are welcome here.”
You don’t need a large backyard. A small patch in the corner, a few pots on the porch, or even a sunny windowsill can be enough. What matters is the intention. When you plant for pollinators, you’re practicing a kind of ecological hospitality. You’re growing not just for yourself, but for the winged ones that keep life going.
The best place to start is with native plants—wildflowers and grasses that evolved in your region, with the pollinators in mind. These are the plants that know how to speak the language of local bees and butterflies. Aster, milkweed, goldenrod, coneflower, bee balm—each one a quiet offering. And it helps to plant with the seasons in mind, choosing flowers that will bloom one after another, from early spring to late fall. That way, there’s always a meal on the table.
But it’s not just about what’s pretty. The garden becomes more resilient—and more alive—when there’s diversity. Different shapes and heights, different colors and scents. Some flowers will attract bees, others butterflies, others still the hummingbirds with their darting wings and bright throats. The greater the variety, the greater the welcome.
One of the most radical things you can do for your pollinator guests is nothing. Don’t spray. Don’t over-tidy. Skip the pesticides and let the garden be just a little wild. Leave patches of bare ground for native bees to burrow in. Keep a few hollow stems standing in the fall, where the solitary bees can rest and nest. A shallow dish of water, with pebbles for landing, makes a perfect pollinator watering hole. These small gestures are acts of attention—signs that this place is more than ornamental. It is relational.
And if you want to go further, think not just of feeding adult pollinators, but of sheltering their young. Monarch butterflies, for example, lay their eggs only on milkweed. Without host plants like this, the lifecycle breaks. So a good pollinator garden is one that provides for every stage of life—nectar for the now, and leaves for the future.
A pollinator garden isn’t meant to be perfect. Let the leaves lie a little longer in the fall. Let seed heads stay standing through the winter, for birds to pick. Embrace the mess. Life flourishes in the in-between spaces. And when the garden comes alive—when the bees arrive, and the butterflies dance above the blossoms—you might begin to feel that you’re the one being pollinated too. With joy. With wonder. With the sense that you are part of something larger, something buzzing and blooming and deeply shared.
Growing a pollinator garden is a small thing, maybe. But it’s also a quiet act of defiance against the loneliness of sealed-off living. It’s a way of saying: let the world in. Let difference come close. Let beauty be shared, and let it multiply.
Because in the end, a garden like this isn’t just about plants or pollinators. It’s about relationship. It’s about learning to live in a world where we’re not the only ones that matter. And it’s about remembering that when we offer welcome to others—especially the smallest among us—we often find ourselves unexpectedly at home.
Pollinator Garden Philosophy
1. Cross-Pollination as Mutual Flourishing
In ecosystems, pollination allows plants to reproduce and thrive. Similarly, intercultural and intracultural exchange can foster new growth—new ideas, shared projects, hybrid traditions, and forms of understanding that would not emerge in isolation. Just as a flower cannot pollinate itself indefinitely, cultures cannot grow in richness without interaction and exchange.
2. Diversity of Pollinators = Diversity of Voices
Bees, butterflies, birds, bats, and even the wind play roles in pollination. This can stand in for the plurality of voices—artists, activists, elders, youth, storytellers, spiritual leaders, scholars, and more—needed to foster vibrant social and cultural ecosystems. No single agent is enough; multiple modes of pollination ensure resilience and fertility.
3. Vulnerability of Pollination = Fragility of Dialogue
Pollination depends on delicate relationships. If pollinators vanish or flowers are destroyed, the system collapses. Likewise, dialogue between divided peoples or cultures is fragile, easily disrupted by fear, prejudice, or exploitation. It must be protected and cultivated, not taken for granted.
4. Accidental Beauty = Serendipitous Understanding
Pollination is often an unintended consequence of a creature seeking nectar. In the human world, too, connection and understanding often arise indirectly—in shared meals, music, play, art, or even protest. We may come seeking something else but carry with us, unawares, the seeds of something more generative.
5. Co-Evolution = Mutual Transformation
Plants and pollinators evolve together, influencing each other’s development. This is a powerful metaphor for what can happen when communities and cultures engage deeply over time—they shape each other, evolve new forms of cooperation, and even new cultural “species” of art, language, spirituality, and governance.
6. Wind-Pollination = Diffuse, Unseen Influence
Some pollination happens through the air, without visible contact. This can symbolize the subtle, invisible ways that ideas, styles, values, and stories travel across cultures—through the internet, films, fashion, music, etc.—sometimes bypassing formal channels but still sowing seeds of transformation.
In ecosystems, pollination allows plants to reproduce and thrive. Similarly, intercultural and intracultural exchange can foster new growth—new ideas, shared projects, hybrid traditions, and forms of understanding that would not emerge in isolation. Just as a flower cannot pollinate itself indefinitely, cultures cannot grow in richness without interaction and exchange.
2. Diversity of Pollinators = Diversity of Voices
Bees, butterflies, birds, bats, and even the wind play roles in pollination. This can stand in for the plurality of voices—artists, activists, elders, youth, storytellers, spiritual leaders, scholars, and more—needed to foster vibrant social and cultural ecosystems. No single agent is enough; multiple modes of pollination ensure resilience and fertility.
3. Vulnerability of Pollination = Fragility of Dialogue
Pollination depends on delicate relationships. If pollinators vanish or flowers are destroyed, the system collapses. Likewise, dialogue between divided peoples or cultures is fragile, easily disrupted by fear, prejudice, or exploitation. It must be protected and cultivated, not taken for granted.
4. Accidental Beauty = Serendipitous Understanding
Pollination is often an unintended consequence of a creature seeking nectar. In the human world, too, connection and understanding often arise indirectly—in shared meals, music, play, art, or even protest. We may come seeking something else but carry with us, unawares, the seeds of something more generative.
5. Co-Evolution = Mutual Transformation
Plants and pollinators evolve together, influencing each other’s development. This is a powerful metaphor for what can happen when communities and cultures engage deeply over time—they shape each other, evolve new forms of cooperation, and even new cultural “species” of art, language, spirituality, and governance.
6. Wind-Pollination = Diffuse, Unseen Influence
Some pollination happens through the air, without visible contact. This can symbolize the subtle, invisible ways that ideas, styles, values, and stories travel across cultures—through the internet, films, fashion, music, etc.—sometimes bypassing formal channels but still sowing seeds of transformation.
Pollinative Societies
How might the contrast between pollinative and sealed societies play out in practical terms? Below are several illustrative examples across different domains.
1. Education
- Pollinative: A liberal arts college that encourages interdisciplinary study, interfaith dialogue, and project-based learning. Students explore ideas across cultures, combine art with science, and learn through engagement with their communities.
- Sealed: A rigid, test-driven educational system focused solely on rote memorization and standardized outcomes, where cross-disciplinary or creative thought is discouraged.
2. Religion and Spirituality
- Pollinative: An interfaith center where Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, and others gather for shared practices, discussions, and service projects—each tradition maintaining its integrity while learning from others.
- Sealed: A religious institution that sees itself as the sole bearer of truth, discourages contact with those outside the faith, and views difference as a threat to purity or correctness.
3. Politics and National Identity
- Pollinative: A democratic society that welcomes immigrants, supports multicultural engagement, and crafts policies through inclusive dialogue. National identity is enriched by pluralism.
- Sealed: A nationalist regime that emphasizes ethnic or cultural homogeneity, closes borders to outsiders, and promotes suspicion of global cooperation.
4. Technology and Media
- Pollinative: A social media platform that fosters genuine dialogue, curates diverse viewpoints, and encourages respectful disagreement through human moderation and design ethics.
- Sealed: An algorithmically isolated online echo chamber, where people encounter only views that reinforce their own, and where outrage and conformity drive engagement.
5. Art and Culture
- Pollinative: A community arts collective that brings together people of different backgrounds to co-create murals, music, and storytelling projects—honoring many traditions in collaborative creativity.
- Sealed: A cultural scene confined to elite institutions, disconnected from grassroots voices, and bound by unspoken rules of taste and exclusion.
These examples are not binary absolutes. Most real communities contain both tendencies in varying degrees. The task, then, is not to label but to discern: where are we closed off, and where are we open? Where are we protecting ourselves from change, and where are we participating in the dance of transformation?
The call of the process gardener is to nourish the pollinative—wherever it appears—and to gently loosen the glass walls of the terrariums we’ve built around ourselves.