The Waiting is the Hardest Part

Something is different this Spring.

You all know that at this time of year, I’m always itching to wriggle my hands into warm, wet Mother Earth, plant some early, cool-weather crops and wait patiently for the first sprout to emerge from her rich soil.

But this year, I’m experiencing an all-consuming sense of urgency to it all. The tension is palpable. Mother Earth’s promise of spring seems to hold more potential and possibility this year. I want to smear her mud across my cheeks like an Indian warrior. I want to keep her fertile soil and heady scent under my fingernails so that I know she is with me at all times. I want to bend, twist, turn, shovel, haul and work so hard that my body throbs in delicious pain and I gratifyingly limp for days afterward.

Perhaps it is the long, dark winter, deeper with snow than in any year past that I can remember. Perhaps I have had the expectancy bottled up and inside for too long. Perhaps I am fantasizing about a rebirth and new beginning like none I’ve ever experienced before. I already feel it is underway – that is how palpable my restless heart’s anticipation has become.

My seed order has been delivered.
My beds have been top-dressed.
My turning fork has been cleaned, its screws tightened, and is ready to work the earth.
All is in place. I need only wait for planting day.

And I am longing for release.