Giddy for gardening

Vermont's rebirth is happening. Although I'm no stranger to this yearly transition, it always leaves me weak in the knees. The daffodils (standing energetically above), have risen to the occasion. The blue For-Get-Me-Nots are blanketing my gardens, valleys, and everywhere the wind has blown them. What began as a small bunch from my mom's garden, has grown into a sea of pastel blue waves throughout the entire property. When I slow down and take in the beauty, all else fades away. Pandemic, what pandemic? The fleeting moment is temporary, as all things are, but this magical space between "being" and the pull of thoughts, allows me to access a hint of a greater knowing. 

Gardening was a way of life from a very early age for me. My mom's flower gardens were revered by neighbors, friends, and South Hero passerby. My parents grew veggies, and tended berry patches long before farm-to-table, organic-produce, and farmer's markets were IN. Back then it was called "feed a family of seven without breaking the bank."

No surprise this VT girl loves playing in the dirt. Whether it's tending to herbs, veggies, or picking from my prolific blueberry patch, I LOVE the "growing season". It's an opportunity to nurture that which nourishes me. Maintaining a connection to soil is healthy in many physiological ways, but the ways it serves my psychological-being is priceless. 

When bulbs I planted in autumn show up in their splendor, my hope is restored. When green seedlings poke their heads out of countless rows, I trust the process. When my husband trucks home yet another load of compost, I'm ready to amend. When each of my children's life-trees bloom, I count my blessings; all four of them. 

I wish you a magical Memorial weekend, full of light, flowers, and love.