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There was the familiar crunch of January frost under my boots as I ran to the greenhouse this morning. We were in the lower 20’s last night and one of my little girls had left my greenhouse door cracked open. They spent yesterday afternoon running back and forth between the frosty trampoline and my 80 degree greenhouse.
Thankfully, my draceana survived the draft. Looking around the greenhouse today filled me with the sense of excitement and anticipation I’ve been waiting for. Finally, I’m excited about starting my seeds. There’s that familiar itch to dig my hands into a fresh bucket of potting soil. I’m looking forward to pricking out tiny lobelia seeds, separating them carefully in my little soil blocks. I’m ready to begin misting trays of soil, patiently waiting for little green sprouts.
The past couple of years I’ve been struggling through some health challenges. Some days it was everything I could do just to get out of bed and make lunches for my girls. Every extra ounce of effort and excitement was reserved for them, for helping them feel the normalcy I definitely did not feel.
I still started seeds though. I potted and planted and moved things to the greenhouse and watered and heated and transplanted again. I was waiting, just waiting to feel it. To feel the excitement, the readiness, and the sheer joy that I’ve enjoyed every year of my life since I was 15 and fell in love with the garden.
It didn’t come. I spent three springs going through the motions. Wanting, wishing I could care and love the way I had.
Today though, I felt it. Taking a deep, frosty breath in my greenhouse this morning it was there, the anticipation. Almost foreign feeling at first, until it wrapped around my like an embrace from an old friend. I love the garden, and my heavy heart has finally lightened to the point where I could feel it again. So I’ll be planting this year. Joy and peace for the first time in a long time.
♥️ every word resonated.