I receive an email from my landlord. Our lease here will be renewed for one final year. Two hours later, I plant the first seeds of spring in newspaper pots and set them under the grow light to germinate. I’m so far behind, but I couldn’t bear to start seeds this year, not with a household move looming. But now, this unexpected change of plans. I think I can catch up.
I spend hours in the garden. I weed the beds and tie the bamboo supports with fresh twine. I spread black gold from my illicit compost pile over the turned soil. For a while I listen to music, then I listen to the wind, then I just listen. I feel gratitude for the warm sunshine and cool air, for a functioning (if aging) body, for the worms and dirt, for the smell of the wild mint and chives made fragrant by the cut of my spade.
But I also ache: for a little farm to tend with my gentleman farmer at my side; for the quiet evening conversation that often follows a long day spent outside; for sweet words of poetry whispered back and forth by the light of the full moon.