Mi Xochitla

In Mexica cosmology, Tlalocan—the lush, verdant flower realm overseen by the rain god Tlaloc—was more than a paradise; it was a dimension of beauty, fertility, poetry, and spiritual transcendence. Accessing this sacred realm was not bound by geography or death alone, but by entering a heightened state of being. This Xochitla, or place of flowers, could be reached through ritual, sacrifice, artistic expression, and divine favor. The heart (yollotl) was understood as the physical and spiritual root of divine access. Some Nahua spiritual texts describe the act of turning inward to “see with the heart” as a way of crossing into the flower realm, a portal to sacred knowledge and cosmic memory.

Gardening was not a practice handed down to me by a parent or grandparent. I have no childhood memories of spending time in the garden with an elder. Aside from a grade school classroom experiment where we planted seeds in styrofoam cups and watched them sprout I do not remember planting anything and watching it grow. It wasn’t until I was 20—when I moved into my first grown-person home in Altadena, CA—that I began gardening. My motivation stemmed from a deep-seated and literal desire to put down roots. Having spent my entire childhood shuttling between my divorced parents’ homes, I never really felt settled. By the time I turned 18, I had lived at twelve different addresses.

The house that once stood at 377 W. Marigold St. in Altadena, CA, was a rental I shared with a boyfriend and a rotation of roommates for almost eight years. It was the first place that truly felt like home. The front of the house featured large, empty garden beds beneath the living room and bedroom windows, which I eventually filled with Mexican Bush Sage, Lavender, and seasonal flowers like Dahlias, Marigolds, and Lilies. The backyard was narrow but long, anchored by a towering willow at its center. The back of the cottage-style home was framed by sixty-year-old Japanese Camellia trees that hugged the back entrance. Along the side yard, I grew various herbs, and occasionally some tomato and strawberry plants. In one very special corner, I cultivated a medicinal garden, home to flowers with psychedelic properties that shared sacred company with a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Digging into fresh soil awakened something in me that felt both ancient and sacred—something I now understand as Spiritual Ancestral Epistemology. When I commune with the plants and soil, I can feel my ancestors come forward, guide my hands, and teach me how to be in relationship with the land to which they have returned. In these moments, gardening challenges the conventional rules of matter and time, and the act becomes a conversation carried through generations of hands and the elements of the earth itself. I return to the ultimate truth of the relationship between people and Land. Me and my ancestors are a visiting pair of hands in nature’s network, for a short amount of time—any rule we have fabricated does not apply here.

The most persistent truth of the garden is that diversity is not optional—it is essential. So essential, in fact, that it cannot be destroyed. When disrupted, nature will eventually self-correct, forcing you to either work with it or perish. The diversity of nature offers infinite models for living—models that are interdependent and adaptive, with each plant carrying a distinct purpose and need, uniquely attuned to its environment.

When you learn how to garden, you begin to see that every plant is capable of communicating its needs. No two corners of a garden are ever the same. Each space, each bloom, each wilt carries a message. These subtle cues invite us into a relationship—one built on observation, patience, and care.

These lessons stand in stark contrast to the dominant narrative of American farming, which seeks to control nature by force—its aim, a homogenous surplus. In this system, difference is seen as disorder. Complexity is treated as inefficiency. And growth is measured only by volume. But when you listen to the land, and its ancestral caretakers, you will learn a different story—one where survival is not about dominance, but about collaboration between us as caretakers, and the elements of soil, water, air, and sometimes even fire.

The Milpa

The Indigenous civilizations of the Americas understood the collaborative nature of the land and their place within that relationship. This understanding is reflected in the interdependent agricultural systems that span the continent, known as Milpa in the Yucatán Peninsula Diohe'ko (dee-OH-heh-koh), or the Three Sisters, in the northern Seneca territories of present-day Ontario and New York State. These regenerative growing systems cultivate corn, beans, and squash—three crops that, when eaten together, form a complete protein and offer a rich blend of vitamins and minerals, making them an ideal foundation for a plant-based diet. More than agriculture, the Milpa is a living metaphor for interdependence, where each plant supports the growth of the others. Alone, each would struggle. Together, they create abundance.

In contrast, modern American agriculture has severed its relationship with the land. The rhythm of the milpa has been replaced by the mechanized logic of monoculture—a system built not to nourish, but to dominate. Here, diversity is erased in the name of efficiency. Monocropping depletes the soil, invites infestation, and requires chemical correction—an endless cycle of extraction and control. As with the milpa, the values embedded in this system extend beyond the field, shaping how we govern, how we build institutions, and how we define success. Where once there was relational intelligence, we now find isolation, depletion, and disconnection.

The values of this system echo loudly in the contemporary American design classroom. Here too, students are shaped by a manufactured scarcity mindset—taught to believe that access, opportunity, and social capital are limited resources to be hoarded, not shared. Within this framework, peers become competitors instead of collaborators. This is a pedagogy of isolation, mirroring the logic of monoculture—serving capitalism above all else, at the expense of people, creativity, and community.

As design educators and practitioners, we have the power—and the responsibility—to disrupt this extractive model, challenge the myth of scarcity, and seed regenerative alternatives. The milpa teaches us that abundance is not produced through domination, but through interdependence. In my own practice, this begins with releasing the illusion that my job is to tightly control the process or coax students into uniform outcomes. Instead, I understand myself as one part of a living, reciprocal ecosystem—where teacher and student take turns being cultivator and cultivated, educator and learner.

When I look at the classroom, the way I look at my garden, I can recognize that no two corners are the same. Every student arrives with their own set of circumstances, unique histories, needs and goals. Like a good gardener, I do my best to notice these differences and respond with curiosity, care, adaptability, and humility. I follow the rhythm of the garden curriculum: observe, try, observe, adjust. And when something thrives, I do my best to understand why—and replicate it with intention.

The hardest part of this process is accepting that, like in the garden, mistakes are inevitable. But mistakes are part of the compost cycle—they break things down so new things can grow. They are how we learn, correct, and begin again. When I feel frozen by the fear of “getting it wrong,” I remind myself: the old way of doing things was already riddled with unexamined flaws—harmful assumptions passed down under the banner of “preparing students for the harsh realities of the workforce,” without ever pausing to ask: where did those harsh realities begin?

I make my teaching philosophy and process transparent, and I invite students into co-creating a pedagogical Milpa with me. I start by encouraging them to become advocates for their needs—much like a plant with drooping leaves signals its need for water—I encourage them to tell me what they think they need to be successful in reaching their goals. When students are empowered to articulate their needs, the classroom ecosystem becomes more resilient. This practice not only reduces harm when mistakes occur—it also fosters a culture of shared responsibility. When miscommunication happens, it is not a failure of the individual but an opportunity for honest reflection and course correction—for both teacher and student.

Another essential element of this pedagogical model is recalibrating our concept of success. The milpa is not designed for unchecked surplus—it is a system that prioritizes communal nourishment. In the classroom, success should not be measured by arbitrary standards, but by each student’s self-defined goals. As educators, we must release our preconceived notions of achievement and instead make space for students’ self-determined visions to take root.

We should celebrate each student’s success, however it manifests, and emphasize that every individual achievement contributes to our collective ability to thrive. When students understand that their growth is not isolated but interwoven with the well-being of others, the classroom becomes something more than a space of instruction—it becomes a living model of radical possibility for the future of creative practice.

The Pride of Madeira

Last year, I planted a Pride of Madeira in front of my home, and it thrived—its tall spires of violet blooms attracting bees, hummingbirds, and neighbors alike. Whenever a plant does well, I like to plant more of it. I take that success as a message: the conditions here are just right. I also happen to believe that one of the most radical things we can do as Americans is make money and not spend it—which is why I practice propagation.

Propagation is the art of multiplying what you already have. You can take cuttings, divide roots, or gather seeds—but my favorite method is taking cuttings. It feels like a shortcut and a prayer rolled into one. Instead of waiting for a seed to sprout and mature, a cutting already contains the memory of growth. Still, it can be unpredictable, which is why I always try a few methods at once.

This spring, I cut two branches from my thriving Pride of Madeira and dipped their ends in aloe vera gel, a natural rooting hormone. One I placed in a jar of water by my kitchen window. The other I planted in damp soil. I had also used a third stick—bare and leafless—to stir the mixture and left it in the pot, thinking nothing of it.

Three weeks later, something unexpected happened. Both cuttings were alive, but had not yet grown roots. It was the stick—the one I thought was just a tool—that burst into life. From what I’d assumed was dead wood, new clusters of saplings were pushing through the soil.

That stick taught reminded me of something essential: I know nothing.

The part I believed had the least potential held the most promise. It reminded me that the leafless thing I overlooked wasn’t dead at all—it was just unburdened. Without the task of sustaining leaves, it could send its energy where it was most needed: toward new life.

This lesson echoes in my teaching practice. In the classroom, we must not confuse stillness with stagnation, or silence with lack of potential. We cannot write off students who seem dormant, distracted, or different. We are not here to dictate the form their growth should take—we are here to make space for it. To remember that what we think we know can get in the way of what’s trying to bloom.

Like propagation, teaching is an experiment in hope. It’s slow, nonlinear, and full of surprises. Some students will root quickly, others may take longer—but all deserve our belief, our patience, and our willingness to be surprised.

Because sometimes, the most fruitful growth comes from what we nearly threw away.

The Fire Follower

One of my favorite native plants here in Southern California is the Matalija Poppy, its enormous white petals and golden center resemble a perfectly fried egg, earning it the nickname “fried egg flower.” The Matalija is native to the Chaparral region of Southern California and Baja, Mexico. The Chaparral is California’s most distinctive biome, dominated by evergreen shrubs with deep roots that are adapted to high intensity, infrequent fire, and shaped by a climate of hot, dry summers & mild, wet winters. The fire part of this description is pretty important as fire is an essential and generative force in this ecosystem—it clears out dry brush, triggers seed germination, and creates conditions for biodiversity to thrive.

Like many of the plants in the Chaparral, the Matalija is a fire rhizome whose roots extend so deep into the soil that it can survive a fire, and regenerate the parts that burn away. Her seeds actually require exposure to smoke in order to trigger germination. Here if there are no fires, there are no flowers.

For centuries, Indigenous land stewards have used cultural burns as a tool for ecological balance, a practice rooted in observing natural cycles like lightning-induced fires. These controlled burns, use low-intensity fires with specific purposes: they regenerate soil, eliminate invasive species, and sustain reciprocal relationships between humans and the land. But when European settlers arrived, they misunderstood what they were seeing.

“European settlers who set foot in California saw tribes setting fire to the land and regarded it as primitive.”  Just two years after the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo forced Mexico to cede vast territories—including present-day California, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, and parts of Colorado—to the United States, the newly formed state of California introduced the Act for the Government and Protection of Indians. This law banned controlled burns, a cornerstone of Indigenous land stewardship, and forcibly displaced native populations through policies of genocide and removal.

This approach, reinforced by a well-designed public campaign featuring the mascot Smokey the Bear, disrupted land stewardship and ultimately contributed to the loss of biodiversity as invasive species were able to choke out native species and contribute to the overgrowth of fuel, which to this day contribute to catastrophic wildfires like California’s 2018 Camp Fire and Hawaii’s 2023 Maui fire.

By the mid-20th century, ecologists began recognizing the importance of fire in forest health, leading to the gradual reintroduction of controlled burns. However, modern government-controlled burns often focus solely on wildfire prevention, while Indigenous cultural fires serve broader purposes: promoting biodiversity, maintaining reciprocal relationships with the land, and preparing resources like acorn-producing oaks or hazelnut shrubs for use in food and crafts—solidifying the value of reciprocity in land stewardship.

Ron W. Goode, Tribal Chairman of the North Fork Mono Tribe, leads cultural burns and works alongside ecologists and educators to share Indigenous knowledge. He states:

“When everything’s a mess and dry, [...] then only the big trees are the ones that are sucking up water, [...] cultural plants can only go down about a meter for water, beyond that, they’re out of water. That’s when you begin to see parasites attack the bushes and the plants. Who grows a garden like that?”

“That’s why the need is to come in and put fire on the land.”

The settler’s idea of fire was one rooted purely in destruction, an idea that fails to recognize the duality of nature.

It is scary, and hard to challenge something you love, but without evolution there is only stagnation and eventually death.
If the systems we’ve inherited are overgrown, brittle, and starved of breath, then we must be brave enough to light the match. To let go of what no longer nourishes. To tend to our pedagogies, institutions, professional, and personal practices, and especially our imaginations—not with fear of the flames, but with the faith that what we can grow from ashes will be beautiful. If there are no fires, there are no flowers.

Cultivating the Future

Gardening has taught me that there is no single natural order—only ecosystems of possibility. The Milpa models the necessity of interdependence. The Matalija poppy teaches us that destruction can be sacred when it makes room for renewal. The Pride of Madeira reminds me that growth often begins where we least expect it—on a stick we thought was dead, in a student we misjudged, in a system we believed was too big to fail.

These land-based teachings are more than metaphor. They are ancient technologies of care, blueprints for survival, and portals into sacred wisdom. They remind us that learning is not linear—it is seasonal. That institutions are not immovable—rather they are compostable. That we do not inherit pedagogy to preserve it, but to tend to it, turn it, and sometimes set it ablaze to make room for new growth.

To design a future rooted in reciprocity, we must cultivate more than a set of marketable skills—we must cultivate whole selves. Selves attuned to cyclical thinking, committed to community, and brave enough to disrupt patterns of harm. Our classrooms must become ecosystems, and our studios sites places of ceremony.

This is how we build futures worth inheriting. This is how we bloom.