A butterfly garden for someone you love

Some goodbyes ask for quiet hands and a slower breath. Over time I’ve learned that the most comforting farewells are simple, kind to the Earth, and rooted in a place you can return to. That’s why I love the idea of burying a biodegradable urn and planting a small butterfly garden above it—nothing fancy, just a living corner that keeps blooming while you keep loving.

I don’t think this needs a strict plan. Think of it as making space—space for memory, for tears if they come, for the feeling that you’re doing something gentle and true.

Choosing the spot

Start by walking around and listening to your body. A sunny edge of the yard. A little bed along a fence. A patch by a tree where the light is kind in late afternoon. If more than one place calls to you, visit each at different times of day. One of them will feel like a soft “yes.”

If the person you’re honoring had a favorite view—morning sun, the sound of water, a certain tree—let that guide you. Practical notes that help: six to eight hours of light is great for most wildflowers, and soil that drains (not puddles) makes everything easier.

What you actually need

Not much. A biodegradable burial urn (and, if you like, a simple biodegradable bag for the ashes). A small hand trowel. Water. Native wildflower seeds or a local “butterfly mix.” Maybe a photo, a letter, or one small thing that makes you feel close. A song on your phone. That’s it.

The intention is the heart of this—everything else is there to support it.

The moment itself

When the day arrives, don’t rush. Stand together for a minute, or stand alone if this is your private ritual. Say their name. Take three slow breaths. If you want music, press play; if not, let the birds and the wind do the talking.

Dig a hole the size of the urn—nothing deep, just enough to cradle it. Place the urn with both hands. If you’ve written something, tuck it in now. If you’ve brought petals, let them fall.

Cover the urn slowly. It helps to invite each person to add a handful of soil—little gestures make everyone part of the goodbye. Scatter the seeds across the soil like you’re salting a meal. Water gently. That first sip is a blessing.

You don’t need perfect words. A few simple lines are more than enough:

• Thank you for your life.

• Your love grows here.

• We’ll meet you in the flowers.

Or no words at all. Silence is still part of the ceremony.

When children are there

Kids often understand more than we expect. Giving them a role helps. Let them sprinkle seeds with their hands, choose a favorite flower color, or draw a picture to “plant” with the garden. If hard questions come, a simple truth usually lands well: “We’re making a place to remember. We’ll come when we miss them.”

Caring for the garden (and yourself)

Water lightly and often for the first couple of weeks. Some seeds sprout quickly; others take their time or even wait for the next season—don’t be discouraged. If you can, add a few native plants of different heights. Butterflies love variety, and so will you.

Come back on birthdays, anniversaries, or on an ordinary Tuesday when your heart needs it. Bring a single flower. Sit for a minute. Notice the light. Let this spot be a small piece of home you can visit whenever you want.

Grief has seasons. Your garden will show you that, gently.

Keeping it eco-kind

Choose biodegradable everything—urn, notes, any ribbons or tags. Skip plastics, glitter, and anything that won’t return to the soil. Use native petals if you bring flowers, and carry all packaging back with you so the place stays as beautiful as you found it. These small choices add up; it feels good to know the goodbye is caring for the Earth, too.

If there isn’t just one place

Sometimes a life belongs to many landscapes. You might build this garden as your main place, and also share ashes in mini biodegradable urns so siblings or close friends can hold their own small ceremonies where they live—same day, same hour, different skies, one intention. Love travels well.

A closing that doesn’t close

I’ve watched these gardens change with the seasons: the first green thread breaking the soil, a sudden pop of color, a butterfly hovering like a hello. Nothing dramatic—just life doing what it does when we make space for it.

If you’re about to create this little sanctuary, I hope it meets you with tenderness. May the ground hold you. May the flowers keep you company. And each time you come back, may you feel what I’ve felt so many times: love is still here, growing quietly, exactly where you planted it.

With love,
Virginia