Yesterday I spent three glorious hours outside prepping beds, fixing fence holes, and cleaning up from last season. And as I looked around, I realized it was that fulcrum point in spring — the day that the grass looks fairytale green and forsythia unbelievable yellow. It felt like some true passage through to a new day among so much mundane same-ness in this quarantine.
It is no secret that I believe plants and gardening has saved me in many ways —emotionally, spiritually, and physically. And as I knelt down in front of a raised bed and opened a packet of spinach seeds, I wept. I’m still unpacking what I was feeling in that moment, but as best I can figure it was some combination of gratitude for the moment, terror of the unknown future, and sadness for anyone without a garden.
The crying continued as a theme over the hours. I cried as the dog ran circles around me with her squeaky ball. I cried as I staked a cage to protect a young budding service berry tree. I cried as I examined the clematis buds traveling up the arbor. I cried a lot.
And at the end of my time in the garden I was at peace. My hands were dirty, body a bit sore, and I was pleased with my time there for the day (tears and all). I had planted future food for my family and was able to BE with nature — especially the daffodils that danced away the hours on the berm in the wind.