The chill of the damp soil seeps through my gardening pants soaking in the earth’s dark dampness.
Though the air is chill and the soil still cold, life is erupting everywhere -- hundreds of weeds pushing up into the growing light.
Now is the time for the hoe: the bulbs have all shown their heads and the sprouting weed’s feet have not had time to hunker down. Slicing through the top of the soil, I turn them under.
I returned today, into the garden -- my own little speck of earth. This 5th garden hour, I feel myself opening, breathing freer as bright yellow daffodils and velvety crocuses herald Spring’s arrival.
Under my fingernails I smell the earth. A switch flips and I feel the stirrings in my body’s neural memory. Wake up!
The wheel turns plainly in the garden. A ceaseless flowing of light and dark growing first longer and then slower until the turn begins the cycle again. Though I cannot see the stars through my LED streetlight’s glare, I can feel the infinite’s presence connecting to my small, but important, place in the cosmos.
The wisdom of the garden is continually revealing itself to me. I grow with the flowers and die with the weeds. Sending out thanksgiving for being blessed with a home that has its own patch of earth; place enough to grow flowers and pumpkins and chickens, and where my children have room to grow.
“Wake up, wake up!” The garden calls. “My work is no chore and the harvest begins now.”