This morning I stepped outside and immediately felt it. The kind of morning that makes it obvious winter is on its way out. The air was warm in that early spring way that feels like a promise. The birds were louder than they’ve been in months. The grass, which has been dull and tired all winter, is just starting to turn green again.
Spring is arriving.
And with it comes a feeling I wait for every year.
Hope.
Last year I didn’t garden at all. By the time early spring arrived, I was eight months pregnant and trying to decide if I could still manage a garden. Part of me wanted to try anyway. I imagined keeping things small, maybe a few beds, maybe a couple of tomatoes. But deep down I knew it probably wasn’t realistic.
My instincts were right.
Within weeks I was holding a newborn and completely underwater. Those early months of motherhood are their own season, and gardening simply didn’t fit into that chapter.
This year feels completely different.
For a million reasons.
This morning I sat outside at our old rustic picnic table with a stack of seed packets in front of me. My dog Stanley climbed right up onto the tabletop and started pacing around like he always does when he wants to be close to me. Apparently sitting next to me on the bench is not enough. If I’m at the table, he must also be at the table.
The air smells like spring. And sitting there, I felt that familiar internal shift that happens every year when the growing season begins.
Starting seeds is my favorite part of the entire gardening process. More than harvesting. More than planning beds. Even more than those slow summer evenings watering the garden.
Because this moment holds the most possibility.
A tiny seed in your hand is pure optimism. You press it into the soil knowing it might become something. Or it might not. Every year the garden surprises you. Some things thrive. Some things struggle. Some things fail completely.
And that uncertainty is part of what makes it so interesting.
Even after five seasons of gardening here, I still don’t really know what will happen. The weather will do what it wants. Seeds will behave in ways you don’t expect. Every year the garden teaches something new.
This season is already starting a little differently than usual.
Normally during the winter I spend weeks with seed catalogs spread across the table. I circle varieties. I imagine what each bed will look like. I plan the entire season before anything ever touches soil.
That didn’t happen this year.
Life with a ten-month-old baby boy has a way of rearranging your priorities. Between naps, teething, crawling, and the constant motion of having a baby in the house, those slow winter planning sessions never really materialized.
Instead, I stopped by the small greenhouse shop in town and picked out whatever seeds caught my eye. Some are local brands. Some aren’t. A few varieties I recognize. Others I know nothing about beyond what the packet says.
And that’s fine.
Gardening doesn’t always happen in perfectly planned seasons. Sometimes you work with the time and energy you have.
Right now that energy is enough to sit outside, breathe in the warm air, and finally plant my tomatoes.
I kept putting it off all weekend. Not because I didn’t want to do it, but because wrangling a ten-month-old all day is exhausting in a way that’s hard to explain until you experience it. By the end of the day the seed trays were still sitting on the table outside and I was still sitting on the couch.
But this morning there was a small window of quiet.
A little sun. A little space.
Enough time to press seeds into soil and begin the season.
And somewhere in the middle of that moment, another idea started forming.
Maybe this is the year I finally do the farm stand.
I only decided that two days ago, which feels very appropriate for how this entire season seems to be unfolding.
A little loose.
A little unplanned.
A little chaotic.
But full of possibility.
Ashley