Early Spring - Our Flower Farm Wakes

Do you ever get the sense there are no coincidences? When I was younger, I'd just chalk up these moments I used to call coincidences were just that--a random happening that had parallels, but weren't truly connected to anything. But now, I get a sense they are whispers, mostly whispers that I'm on the right path.

Yesterday, I shared one of my favorite sights on our flower farm in spring, a photo I took of a beautiful snow drop that was blooming in our orchard. It's one of my most favorite things about early spring around here. These otherwise dormant bulbs prepare for their time to shine and are always the first to bloom. Most of the year, these tiny plants are completely hidden, their leaves, blooms, everything obscured underground and you'd almost never know they are there unless you start digging and you'd find small bulbs that almost look like the base of a green onion. But in late winter, their leaves push through the soil and their deep, dark foliage finally emerges and you get a sure sign of where these have been hidden the rest of the year. They come up in thick clumps in a bold, deep green, a stark contrast amongst the dried, dormant overgrowth from last year's gardens still sleeping. They always get my heart pumping as I know spring is soon coming, my favorite season.

A few weeks later, one or two of those dark leaves will show signs that a bloom is soon to appear--then you know spring is truly here. A tiny bud unfurls from the end of the stem and one morning, you'll wake to find the most delicate downward bloom open. To my daughter and me, they look like they could be tiny fairy's skirts, perfect little blooms with their snow white bell shape, adorned with the most beautiful chartreuse dots on the end of each scalloped petal hemline. Magic.

Each morning, I have a sacred few moments to enjoy a cup of coffee while the dogs snooze at my feet. I usually spend this time in bed, soaking up the last few moments of quiet, sipping coffee, reading a book, and taking a few moments to think while watching the birds from our bedroom windows. This morning, I was excited to start a book I've had on my list, "The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year," by Margaret Renkl.

Yesterday, I had shared a social media post with the image of the snow drops after my morning walk and written about lessons in the garden aligning so beautifully with life, a real-time metaphor for alignment with the seasons we're in. When I picked up the book this morning to read, this line was almost an answer to that very sentence... from the first chapter, "The Season of Sleeping: Winter: Week 1," Renkl wrote, "Nothing in nature exists as a metaphor, but human beings are reckless metaphor makers anyway, and only a fool could fail to find the lesson here."

I put down the book, took a sip of coffee and remembered the words I'd written yesterday, sharing that as stewards, my husband and I are always listening, watching, learning and adjusting, the only path forward on this crazy ride we're on... meaning both on our little flower farm venture and it's parallels with our lives. I plainly see the message in my coincidence a reminder to be quiet, be still, and truly listen to the sounds around us, the messages from nature, and take it into every day life, to really listen to one another. This is where I feel our current state of things is so off track. No one is listening.

I had a few moments to read on and was awestruck by the beauty of this author's writing. I'm hooked and cannot wait to see all the unfolds in the pages ahead. I'll share her words with you today to ponder, but I hope it also inspires you in your day to really get quiet and listen to your world with curiosity. Take moments to really study the trees, the plants outside your window, notice the birds in your garden, really listen when someone is taking the time to talk with you. What do you hear?

Praise Song for the Coming Budburst - Margaret Renkl

"It looks like a mistake, like something left behind as fall moved into winter. The framework for a leaf gone by, perhaps, or the false start of some living thing that never grew into itself.

It is not a mistake.

There was no error in its planning and none in its purposes.

All winter long the brown bud will sleep. While the cold crow calls into the gray sky, while the wet leaves blacken and begin their return to earth, the brown bud is waiting for its true self to unfold: a beginning that in sleep has already begun."