Not helping my winter ennui, I’ve been reading articles on gardening. This year Leo and I want to try our hand at our own small garden. We will, of course, still be helping my folks at the farm.
As I read through articles on water conservation, soil nutrition, plant protection, pest control, etc. I can almost smell the warm damp earth. My skin remembers the warmth of spring and the sticky sweat dripping down my back in the heat of summer.
I long to dig my hands past the sun warmed earth surface and feel the shape of potatoes in cool dirt.
I long to lay next to Leo and feel the ceiling fan making lazy breezes lulling us to sleep.
I want to hull peas, snap beans and shuck corn. I want to taste the vegetables before I’ve even left the garden gate. I want to crush up lamb’s ear and cinnamon basil between my fingers and inhale deeply the musty herbs.
I want to rub lemon balm on my wrist and envelop my senses in summer. I want to shadow my dad as he inspects his beloved apple trees. I want to water the plants while I watch Simeon dig in the dirt.
I want to kneel next to my mama, the sun beating down on our backs while we clear over growth from her flower garden. I want to sit on the front porch swing. I want to walk the woods at dusk.
I want to lay in the hammock. I want to gaze at the stars in the middle of the pasture with Leo. I want finger nails caked with dirt. I want knees stained with red clay.
I want t-shirts soaked with sweat. I want to walk barefoot across the cool grass. I want to jump through the sprinkler. I want to watch to watch the beautiful things we’ve planted break free from the earth.
I want to play in the creek. I want to watch birds and butterflies make way through the property. I want to measure time by the length of days. I want to eat dinner by fire-fly light. I want to shower with well water. I want to cook fresh from the garden.
My world feels small in these cold months. On the coldest days, my bones ache. I feel tight. I feel slow. 62 days until Spring. Not that I’m counting.