This has been a journey of love and trust and gratitude. Sometimes I don't even know where I am anymore and this is why I must write. Take pen in hand, sit at computer, put my thoughts onto paper again. It's a deep part of my connection to myself.
Like a deep breath, I am welcomed home. And all is at it should be. Hope persists. The plan divine.
So lately I have been in seeds and denial. I don't want to be outside -- it's cold cold cold and I just can't deal with it. I am hiding inside hoping my garden beds will magically make themselves or that I will wake up the next day motivated by some warm patch of sunlight on the floor, but the rain persists. This new obsession with Patty Griffin is borderline dangerous for my sanity. They must love her in Ireland. Today she swirls around me like the fog outside my window. Haunting, mystical, vibrant as the green grass, but I can tell that I would be faking it to put on something less painful today. "Isn't it hard sometimes ... isn't it lonely ... how I still hang around sometimes ... there's nothing to hold me..." "I have to admit there appears to be ... way more darkness than light."
I don't actually usually mind the weather whether or not it's sunny, but this Spring has my bones creaking and my mind unsettled at the prospect of no warmth save bath-time and sitting next to my wood stove. I am grateful then for my hope. My hope causes me, every year, to take tiny lifeless pods and plant them in dirt near my window. I know my inner cynic feels in some way that they might not come up, but usually - given time, water and heat, if needed, they come up. Little green miracles of leaves and color - each with a different story and shape and personality. My peppers would rather it warm up. They are tiny still, just getting their second set of leaves. The tomatoes are already 4 inches tall, ready to transplant as soon as I want to get around to it. Calendula is all floppy like bunny ears. The collards are ruffled, the chard a rainbow of leggy stems, the nasturtium enormous already with large green lilly-pad like leaves all stretching and strong. Purple and green basil with their tiny bunched and round leaves, hollyhock which will flower next year and grow at some point as tall as I am - now tiny and fragile - all hinged with that spring green - vibrant, luminous, amazing.
This morning I finally succumbed and started more. I had hoped that I would motivate to want to work on the garden beds outside and just sow them there, but I just can't do it.
So, jalapeno peppers, kale (red russian and our favorite lacinto), napa cabbage, parsley, and marigolds just joined the indoor party. I love it. It's helping me just BE in the now without judgment or disdain for my inability to deal with the cold. I can stop viewing my preference as a short coming, light a fire and sit with a book or fold some laundry, learn a new song - there is always plenty to do. I can start my garden inside and the motivation and excitement to be outside will come. I can wait for it just as I wait for my seeds to swell, root and reach their leaves for the light of a new day.
As I sit and reflect on this past month - I can see that the seeds I started in March have grown. When I planted them, there was still snow covering our world here, and now there lies green grass outside and the sound of birds chirping fills my ears. I am grateful for the reminder to love what is and be patient and trust in the unknown....
