All during Merry's week-long illness, I've been stealing outside with Beatrix on my hip. We search the soil for signs of new life.
Of course, there are the spring bulb's blossoms that welcome us on the way out of the door, and I'm not ungrateful for them, but it's the more subtle returning life--the tiny points of perrenials bravely poking their way through dead leaves and thawing soil--it's those that thrill me, that make me pull in my breath and live again myself after the endless winter.
And today, Good Friday, I spotted my first brave pea seedling. I'm always incredibly amazed when my seeds actually sprout and unfurl and become strong. These peas were the result of a community planting--my friend Arne and her little crawling boy, Lucas hoed and turned over the soil, as did Merry's friend Catherine--and then a second wave of pea-planting friends arrived, to plant a second round of vining sugarsnaps. We're no-till folks, but I turned over the soil, cheering the earthworms, and I gave them plenty of compost, as I imagine they want some good, juicy soil (and guru Eliot Coleman says his best peas resulted from an accidental double-dose of manure).
Life--it's stirring everywhere, under our feet, in the air, in the robin that settled down and watched us with his head cocked thoughtfully. Every winter, I forget what Green and Warm is. Or I enter a tunnel of child-sickness and busyness and I forget what To Be at Peace is. But that does not mean it is not there. I am thankful for seasons--waiting for spring through the endless grey of winter teaches me how to wait, and how to be in the silence of frozen earth and darkness. And then comes warmth, and light, and I remember again what they are, and I rejoice.
(Aunt Mary Jane stopped by and watched Martin work, Elspeth forage, and Bea climb walls.)
And finally, for a good Good Friday reflection, check out my dad's poverty blog. He says it well.
