Happy Saturday!

It appears that I am to hang up my gloves for a season of my life. Arguably nearly three seasons for the garden, all told. I haven’t quite come to terms with this. I’m not sure if I will, but I’ll do it none the less.

Growing a family is hard work, and sometimes we need more rest for a season than we would like in order to do so.

I can toss out carrot seeds gently, though, I imagine. Ah, but look, March’s unsprouted seeds are showing up after our hurricane rains…

I can admire the garlic greens from a chair.

I will sow and nurture tomato and pepper seedlings at the New Year, plugs prepared by others’ hands, so that I may yet enjoy this view again next year.

But turning the earth must wait. Hauling the manure and hefting the nicked leaves aren’t for me this year. Smells of the last of the tomato vines as they’re pulled for the bin will waft into someone else’s nose.

Unearthing the treasure (hopefully) buried beneath this beast will be left to others’ devices.

I already miss the mowing. The nausea and the heat haven’t allowed me to mow in months. But maybe I can still pull weeds? And the wheelbarrow handles just fit so well in my hands…but DH will bend low to grab them for me.

I don’t sit still well. I never have. My back aches faster and deeper from stillness than activity. Life brings challenges anew. I am used to the physical challenges of exertion. I’ve enjoyed a sub-less soccer match in 26° and 106°. A half a mile of lunges? Sure, I’ve done that. 20 hour work days? Let me at it. But to find stillness for months? That’s daunting to a degree I’ve yet to feel on the active end of the spectrum.

As with labor though, I’m given the reminder that at the end, there’s a baby. A whole person with a life to lead. New eyes to see the world. New thoughts to join the cacophony of humanity. A new heart ready to be filled by love. At the end, it will all be worth it.

I planted the onions today. A bulb’s worth of garlic. The cauliflower starts, nearly four months old, but mere wisps of expectation, went in.

The sprinkler rained around the newest plum, July. From fifty feet afar it made the air feel cooler.

The sun beat back the shadows and the mist drops upon the earth rose again to reach the sky.

Retreating indoors, I, myself,set the temperature to rise…

They’ve moved into the curb bed. I stabbed the earth repeatedly with a rake handle. They revolted. I stabbed. They widened their search for their attacker. I fled the scene. But, like television teaches us, the criminal often returns to the scene of the crime. I did so, predictably. I did so with some poisonous potato chip crumbs (or whatever they are.) It rained down like sprinkles on a cupcake. Like leaves from a lately turning tree in a winter wind flurry. I left them to viciously scramble over the yellow crumbs blanketing their mound. I have little faith that it worked, but it felt good.

I have yet to check.

I have ants in my pants yet again. We’ve only been in this house a year and a smidge. I found myself shopping today. There’s a school over there. It’s interesting. Is it the right school for our little human? (Is there ever a right anything?) I’ll chalk these ants up to my third day of stomach bug making any vertical moves in the physical realm result in a sharp stick.

The ants go marching three by three, hurrah…hurrah…

I should water the winter sprouts. They’re in the shade, but it’s still 100 degrees outside. That, however, requires standing up.

…

(I watered the sprouts. And checked the ants. They’re still there. I poked them with a stick this time. And am eating crackers now – what a victory.)

I made myself a cake. (This is doubly a treat.)

I hope today is full of sunshine on the inside and downpours of love be you a mother, have you a kind mother, or love you a lovely other’s mother.

A year has passed. One could say that at any point and it would be just as true.  A year has passed and then some. Her birthday has come and gone. The first anniversary of my birth day as well. Emotions gain so much in parenthood.  Patience expands beyond previous horizons repeatedly. Joy bubbles to bursting at times. Sorrow rises and oozes and weighs over everything.
The glee at a sprouted seed,  magnified.
The anticipation at the next growth stage,  heightened.
The pride in the successes,  overgrown.
And too, the melancholy and grievous loss over the end of the season,  palpable.
So long,  little baby.  Hello,  little lady.  Thank you for the memories you’ve given (and the tokens you’ve offered with your tiny starfish hands.) Thank you for the clues to cherish those “one last times” so that I wouldn’t miss them.  Thank you for all of the upheaval and growth.  I feel my mind’s weeds have been cleared and the soil of my spirit has never been richer.
I’m not sure that the goodbyes to each piece of you will ever grow easier to live,  but I’ll live them gladly because each goodbye for me ushers in your new hello. 

“Is it just miserable out?” the barista asked, smile slathered in warmth and charm.
I knew I was supposed to say yes, or at least I presumed “yes” was what one said in such small talk situations.
“Pretty much. It’s winter out,” I replied.
He poured my coffee. Another barista, looking more the part than the first, took my money. I doctored my drink and thought, “It can’t be miserable out. Out has no misery. It’s just winter being winter. How can anything be miserable being exactly what it is?” The words played and parried. I sipped and doctored again and stirred and sipped.
They’d forgotten my croissant.

It’s not miserable out. Cold for Central Texas? Yes. Cold for winter in Central Texas? Not at all. It’s just winter being winter. And we need the winter. It helps regulate the mosquitos folks will gripe about in coming months (myself included, as I, apparently, am one of “those people” they find especially tasty.) I believe, although I couldn’t say where I got the notion, that more chill hours is one of the factors of a spectacular showing of wild flowers in Aprilish.

I do hope the ice farther north in the state didn’t zap any early blossoms for farmers of stone fruit or other delicately disposed food or finance sources.

But no, Barista, sir, it is not just miserable out. I found the thin veneer of ice on my car this morning quite quaint and slightly magical.

A Crop Harvest for All Year – http://wp.me/p2Jp2g-YD