The forsythia blooms in bright cascades out back. Daffodils beam in butter yellows. Cherries froth in pastel pinks, and tulip tips emerge from the earth. The grass has come to life again: its green growth waves in the wind. We’re not mid-March yet and it’s already time to mow.
The end of winter is in sight. The spring equinox is this Friday, and my annual gardening vacation begins immediately after. I’ll take a whole week to cut back dead stems from perennials, clear leaf litter, and spread mulch. I called my mulch guy yesterday and left a message; I hope I’m not too late to get it delivered on Friday. If not Friday, then Monday at the latest. It takes a few days to spread it all.
If there are still days left of my vacation after all of that, and if the nursery has anything in stock I can put in the ground or in flower boxes, the reward for my labors in browns will be fresh greens and bright bursts of colors.
I can’t wait. If the weather is nice, I’ll take breaks on the back deck in the sunlight. I’ll eat smoothie bowls while I gaze out over the beds and plan what to plant in the open spaces. I’ll imagine what the garden will look like when the flowers grow in. I’ll need to go down and see the bare ground close up to remind myself what was there before and whether I expect it to come up again. I’ll walk laps among the flower beds, thinking and planning, touching the warm earth. Each day will feel wide open: no schedule on a calendar. Just “spread the mulch” or “run to the nursery.” I love it so much.
In the garden, I lose track of time as told by hands on a watch face. Instead, time is told by the warmth of the sun, the growl in my belly, the reapplication of sunscreen, the length of shadows. The garden is one of the few places where time becomes irrelevant to me.
Butterfly Mind 