There’s something about a terrarium that whispers calm. Maybe it’s the stillness—the way light filters through damp glass, or how the moss always looks freshly awakened. Maybe it’s the sense of scale, of being invited to peer into a world so small, you can’t help but slow down. For me, it’s all of the above—and one little frog named Herman.

Herman lives in a terrarium in our great room, just near enough to be part of our everyday rhythm. He’s not a real frog—he’s rubber—but very much alive in spirit. His presence is grounding. Like a pebble in the pocket, he’s there when I’m cooking, when I come in from a long day, when I’m lingering over tea. In that miniature greenhouse, Herman lounges next to a ladybug named Daisy. Together, they’re like housemates of a tiny forest I get to curate and care for.

And there’s more: Ant lives in my office. He’s a little nearsighted (and also rubber), but he holds his ground. He reminds me that quiet work—slow, steady attention—has dignity too. Every creature has its place, just as every part of me does.

There’s a certain ritual to caring for my terrariums. A light misting. A careful rearrangement of leaves. The occasional repositioning of a creature for better feng shui. In that act of tending, something internal slows down. You’re not responding to a ping or preparing a pitch—you’re watching how a bit of moss curls toward the light.

I love every aspect of a terrarium. The three that currently keep me company come from Sprout Home, a fabulous little shop in Wicker Park. And each terrarium I’ve created is a kind of home-within-a-home, a pocket-sized ecosystem. No furniture needed—just moss, ferns, and a few gentle companions. It’s a philosophy I’ve long held: if you don’t have pets, your space should still have life. A reminder that we, too, are living creatures.

When I was a kid in the 1970s, I was obsessed with those jars of colored sand you could shift with a pencil—like tie-dye in a bottle. Terrariums tap into that same delight: the joy of making something enclosed but vibrant, curated but wild. Each time I walk by one, I feel an almost childlike happiness.

They’re my garden of stillness, my collection of quiet friends. And every time I pause to look in, I remember to breathe, and enjoy the gratitude to live Happily Ever Always™.