Walking Back Into the Harvard Studio From a Very Different Landscape
- May 18
- 4 min read
Updated: May 18
Reflections on sharing Hope Eternal Gardens with Harvard Graduate School of Design students
This spring, I had the opportunity to virtually visit the Harvard Graduate School of Design and speak with students in the “Landscapes of Remembrance” Landscape Architecture Core II studio coordinated by Craig Douglas.
The conversation centered around Hope Eternal Gardens — our licensed natural burial cemetery, memorial forest, and future public park in rural Punta Gorda — and how landscapes of remembrance operate not just conceptually, but in real life: ecologically, emotionally, operationally, and over long periods of time.
It felt surreal to be speaking from the other side of the studio experience. Years ago, I was the student staying late tracing plans and imagining how landscapes might evolve decades into the future. One of the things design school gave me was the ability to think in long timelines — to see landscapes as living systems shaped by growth, maintenance, weather, and human experience over time.
Now, I spend my days inside one of those systems.
For nearly eight years, Chris and I have been designing, building, and tending Hope Eternal Gardens. We walk the land constantly. We know where water lingers after summer storms, which trees are thriving, and the places families naturally gravitate toward when they need quiet.
Preparing for the conversation gave me a chance to step back and reflect on a few lessons this landscape continues to teach us.
Lesson 1: “Forever” landscapes require a different mindset
One of the things we discussed with the students was how differently you think when designing a landscape intended to last for generations.
At Hope, we are constantly thinking about time — not just in terms of initial installation, but in terms of succession, stewardship, and long-term emotional experience. We ask questions like:
What will this forest feel like in 50 years?
How will people move through these spaces as the canopy matures?
What kinds of maintenance practices quietly support dignity over time?
How do you create a place that feels alive rather than frozen in grief?
Designing a cemetery has made us pay closer attention to systems that age well: soil health, hydrology, planting density, accessibility, and simplicity in materials and detailing.
The students were especially interested in the tension between design intention and real-world constraints — permitting, ecology, maintenance, and regulation — and how those realities ultimately shape the project. In many ways, those constraints have made the work stronger and more grounded.
Lesson 2: Participation changes how people remember a place
Another major part of the conversation centered around planting as participatory remembrance rather than maintenance.
At Hope, families often plant trees, spread mulch, scatter wildflower seeds, or help establish parts of the memorial forest themselves. Over time, I’ve seen how meaningful that physical participation can be.
People remember the landscape differently when they helped shape it.
The students asked thoughtful questions about how those experiences influence design decisions — things that might seem small on paper, but matter deeply in real life. Where does someone pause naturally? How exposed or protected does a bench feel? How do people move through a meadow in formal clothes after rain?
Those moments become part of the memory too.
One thing I’ve learned is that memorial landscapes do not need to feel static. The forest continues growing. Families return and notice change. Trees put on height. Wildflowers reseed themselves. The landscape keeps becoming something over time, which feels deeply connected to the emotional experience of remembrance itself.
Lesson 3: Living with a landscape teaches you what drawings can’t
One of the most rewarding — and humbling — parts of this work has been living so closely with the site itself.
As designers living and working on the property, our feedback loop is immediate. We see how storms actually move through the land, which species struggle unexpectedly, and which ideas looked convincing on paper but needed adjustment once they met reality.
That kind of long-term observation changes you as a designer.
During the presentation, I shared before-and-after images from some of our early memorial forests, and we talked about adaptation over time — not only ecological adaptation, but design adaptation too. The landscape is constantly teaching us to pay closer attention.
I think that ongoing relationship with a site is something landscape architecture education prepares you for conceptually, but experiencing it in real time is entirely different.
Preparing for this conversation reminded me how much of Hope Eternal Gardens grew from both design education and lived experience. The project continues to evolve alongside us, and it continues teaching us — about ecology, stewardship, grief, maintenance, and the responsibility that comes with shaping landscapes people will return to for generations.
Huge thanks to Craig, the students, and Zaneta Hong for the invitation and thoughtful conversation. It was meaningful to share this work with students who are beginning their own journeys in landscape architecture.
And as always, thank you to the families and community members helping shape Hope alongside us. Every planting day leaves something behind — not only in the forest, but in all of us.
