If we notice the natural systems around us, it can make a difference; regeneration will occur, health can be restored.
Beneath golden sunlight, the chickens fervently scratch around the compost pile. Snow has melted from the garden, and they are happy at last to wander away from their coop and covered run.
“Let’s go watch the chickens!” I tell my 3-year-old, and together we step into mud boots and tug on coats. I pull the edges of my coat together across my growing belly, finding the only snap that still clasps, as our awaiting babe readjusts its position in response to my movements.
We sit on the wooden swing to watch, and I realize it’s the first time in months that I’ve sat in the garden. The grass is a soak of snowmelt; the garden beds are earthy as frozen soil warms from the sun. We venture to the carrot patch, where I’d stacked straw to protect roots stored in the ground through the winter. I peel back the straw, and my heart alights when my daughter exclaims “There’s a carrot!” as she reaches to point out a small stem. Despite a season of cold and snow, she remembers.
I bury my fingers in the soil, gently clasping the carrot root and tugging it free. The action reveals several more, so I pull those up too. The dirt is loose and clings to my hands. I observe how it clumps, sticks in places, crumbles. I hold it in my hand and remember six months ago, on one of those warm fall days when radiant sunshine melts off crisp frost on green grass and you can feel the earth sigh in preparation for the winter ahead, my dad venturing into the garden with my daughter. I observed from the window as they plucked carrots and washed them in the flow of the hydrant. They slowly ambled back to the house, munching carrots. It was my dad’s last visit to our house. It was the last time I saw him before the heart attack that took his life.
For that moment, the garden holds me. The dirt on my hands nourishes my heart as my eyes feast on the purples, yellows, and oranges of the carrots. As I exhale, I feel my body surrender. Muscles release. I listen to the language of the earth, feel the life around me.
This spring I’m taking things slowly. Endeavoring to observe, pay attention in new ways. Walk with grace. Hear, understand, feel. I find encouragement in the words I’ve read in this issue. If we notice the natural systems around us, it can make a difference; regeneration will occur, health can be restored.
A couple of the chickens coo, and I look up from the soil to see them leisurely lounging in some loose straw next to the compost bin. Their eyes are closed, feathers glisten in the sun. My daughter picks up the carrots, and we redirect our focus back to the birds.
Jessianne Castle
Editor
