by Greyson Keller
President of The Garden Group, Inc. & Landscape Designer at Studio Viburnum
I began my dream with weary hands,
on borrowed time, on shifting sands.
Each stone I stacked, the wind unmade,
each step I climbed, the road betrayed.
The dream I bore was never mine,
but roots entwined in oak and vine.
And when I stumbled, near defeat,
it was their hands that found my feet.
Through trials deep and darkened skies,
it’s love that lifts, that fortifies.
With hearts aligned, with strength renewed,
we rise as many, not as few.
So now I build, no longer lone,
on solid ground, on love well-sown.
For dreams rise stronger, sure and true,
when lifted up by more than you.
It’s ironic to me that when the clocks move forward in March, people say, “spring ahead.” As if longer days mean we’re suddenly moving forward, making progress, gaining time. But in my world, more daylight only means more to do: more grass to cut, more beds to prep, more pruning, more planting, more catching up before the season overtakes me. Dethatch the lawn before the bulbs push through. Prune the red-stem dogwoods before they leaf out. Rake the beds before the daffodils get too tall. I make lists, I make plans, but the days have their own rhythm. The hours slip past, the sun lingers longer, and still, I fall behind.
But maybe falling behind isn’t failure. Maybe it’s just the way of things.
Because the daffodils will bloom and laugh whether or not I cleared last year’s leaves. The dogwoods will swell and burst into color even if I never lifted my pruners. And the crocuses, they are the best reminder of all. They arrive unapologetically, pushing up through thatch and mess, through neglect and delay, and still, they shine. They don’t care about perfection. They don’t care about timelines. They simply grow.
We do what we can, when we can. We prioritize. If I know I want peas in the ground, I make time to plant them. If I can’t decide which variety of lettuce to sow, I wait until next week, the seeds will still sprout just as well. We move with the season, not against it. We make do.
Nantucket is more than an island. It is a rhythm, a breath, a place where the land and sea hold stories in their windswept embrace. The roses climbing over gray shingles, the hedges standing like sentinels along winding roads, the saltpruned landscapes bending but never breaking under the ocean’s pull. This is a place of quiet endurance, shaped by hands that work the soil, trim the hedges, and rake the paths that welcome summer’s return.
I’ve spent my life in these gardens, learning their language, tending to the landscapes that make Nantucket feel timeless. I know their seasons, their struggles, their small victories. And I know the people who care for them, my crew, my friends, my neighbors.
Some have been here for generations, their roots as deep as the oldest swamp oaks. Others came from far away, drawn to the promise of hard work and a life built with their own two hands. Gardeners, painters, housecleaners, carpenters, artists, nurses…people whose work is woven into the fabric of this island. Without them, the roses would climb unchecked, the hedges would lose their shape, the cobblestones would sit heavy beneath a layer of dust.
But for many of us, the cost of calling Nantucket home is slipping beyond reach.
Rent at Richmond’s Meadows I and II apartments has jumped 20-30% in a single year. Families are doubling up. Workers are commuting from off-island. Some are leaving altogether.
The same hands that plant, paint, clean, and build—the hands that make Nantucket feel like home—are being forced out of it. And it’s not just rent. Everything has become more expensive: materials, fuel, wages. As costs rise, so must the rates for the services that keep Nantucket’s homes and gardens pristine. But there’s a limit to what people will pay. I see it already, some cutting back on maintenance, some choosing the cheapest labor available, regardless of experience or care. And I wonder, what happens when the very things that make Nantucket extraordinary begin to unravel, one small cut at a time?
But I refuse to believe this is the end of the story. Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Nantucket is built on resilience. We are a community that finds a way. We patch what’s broken. We stretch what’s left. We share what we can.
The fisherman mends his net instead of buying a new one. The carpenter saves good wood from an old job to fix a neighbor’s fence. The gardener repurposes bricks for a new border rather than tossing them aside.
We make do.
And we can do the same when it comes to keeping our workers, our people, our community, here. We can create solutions that honor both Nantucket’s history and its future.
Accessory Dwelling Units can provide housing for year-round workers without disrupting the island’s charm. Inclusionary zoning can ensure that new developments set aside affordable housing. Programs like ACK-Now’s Lease to Locals are already turning short-term rentals into long-term homes. Homeowners, business owners, policymakers, we all have a role to play in prioritizing year-round stability over seasonal profit.
This isn’t about changing Nantucket. It’s about preserving what makes it real. The landscapes, the traditions, the community. The feeling of knowing your gardener’s name. Of trusting your house painter. Of seeing familiar faces at the market instead of an endless rotation of strangers.
Nantucket thrives when its people thrive. I look at the gardens I tend, the clients I’ve worked with for years, the employees I consider family, and I know one thing to be true, this island is worth fighting for. The challenges are great, but so is the spirit of this place.
The work we do is never perfect, never finished, never fully caught up. That’s the nature of gardens, and that’s the nature of life. There is always more to do, always something we didn’t get to, always a list of things that should have been done yesterday. But still, the gardens grow.
Still, the daffodils bloom.
Still, the crocuses shine.
Still, the island holds us, and we find a way forward.
Still, we make do.
And that’s what gives me hope.
Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that we will always find a way to grow.
