How medieval monastic gardens explained the basics of faith

In the heart of every cloistered monastery, carefully planted, lovingly tended, quietly radiant gardens grow. In medieval times, these orchards were not just a matter of self-sufficiency and survival. They were sacred spaces where theology took root in soil, and where the soul, like the soil, was cultivated toward holiness.

In Catholic tradition, the Hortus Conclusus — Latin for “enclosed garden” — is more than a poetic metaphor. It’s a theological symbol drawn from the Song of Songs and richly applied to the Virgin Mary: a virgin and yet fruitful, the pure womb from which God Himself would take flesh.

Mary is the archetype of this sacred garden, the perfect soil of divine life. And it is no coincidence that many medieval depictions of the Annunciation — especially those by Fra Angelico — place her within a walled garden, contrasting Eden’s loss with Mary’s “yes” to a new creation.

In monastic life, this image took physical form. The cloister itself became a hortus conclusus, where spiritual life was tended in enclosure — separated from the noise of the world, but never from its needs. Monks and nuns lived out Mary’s fiat with daily devotion, nurturing the seeds of truth in soil and soul alike.

Writer and medievalist Danièle Cybulskie, in her engaging exploration of monastic gardens for Medievalists.net, offers a closer look at the actual features planted in these “tiny Edens,” as she calls them.

Her research uncovers a rich blend of symbolism, practicality, and beauty. Of the many features she details, three stand out for the way they bring theology and daily life together.

A monastery’s fountain was far more than a water source. As Cybulskie notes, its presence near the church carried deep theological meaning. According to late garden historian Sylvia Landsberg, the three forms of water — bubbling spring, flowing stream, and still pool — were seen as symbols of the Holy Trinity. For monks, the sound of water was a kind of liturgy in motion, calling them back to prayer and to the mystery at the heart of the Christian faith.

The monks’ herb gardens were, if you will, acts of mercy themselves. Planted with care and studied with precision, they became places of healing not just for the community within, but for those outside the cloister as well. Herbs like sage, rosemary, and even belladonna were cultivated with a balance of scientific understanding and spiritual purpose. These gardens were, in a sense, sacraments of care — tangible signs of God’s healing presence in a wounded world.

Perhaps the most poignant feature was the orchard-cemetery. Fruit trees, Cybulskie explains, grew where monks were buried — apples and pears offering nourishment beside the resting places of the faithful. Flowers like lilies and roses bloomed over graves, not only for beauty, but as signs of resurrection. Here, theology blossomed in branches and petals: life rising from death, season after season.

These monastic gardens weren’t ornamental — they were incarnational. They revealed, in living form, what the cloister believed: that silence gives space for the Word, that beauty points to truth, and that even the most enclosed garden can overflow with grace.

To discover more about the plants and meaning behind medieval monastic gardens, read Danièle Cybulskie’s full article at Medievalists.net, and explore her broader work at danielecybulskie.com or on Instagram @5MinMedievalist.