It snowed the other day. It only stuck a little bit and was melted by noon the day after, but still. Snow. In reality, it could still snow for another month or so, but I’m over it. I suppose I should be using this time more productively before the flurry of the garden season hits for real, but I’m not. I’m just waiting. I’m waiting to feel the warmth of the sun on my back, the breeze – not cold, not hot – on my cheek, the smell of lilacs in the air. I’m waiting for dirt under my fingernails that no amount of scrubbing can remove, and of little shoots of tiny plants bursting through the soil. Waiting for apple blossoms and honey bees, sun tea and cool nights by a fire outside.
I feel a bit like I’m in a holding pattern here, waiting for warmer weather, the green light to plant my seedlings in the garden and the ability to take a deep breath without fearing the sharpness of the cold in my lungs. Gardening mirrors life so much of the time, or is it that we see ourselves more clearly through the lens of our planting beds? So yes, I’m in a holding pattern, perhaps in more ways than one, but spring will come. It always does.