A trip to the farmers market this weekend yielded so very much: early morning visits with friends and neighbors; the gathering of Maine's early treats - rhubarb and fiddleheads; and some extra seedlings and words of wisdom from the farmers sharing them.
At home, the last soil preparations were made, the markers were crafted, and just a few more raised beds - of all (child-made) shapes and sizes - were added to the growing collection of boxes we call our humble garden. And then, we planted. With hands in soil, we worked and talked - of plants and farms and food and the future dreams of our little family.
As a new season of growth begins for us in the garden, I feel the growth of my children too. I'm reminded through this seasonal rhythm we celebrate and treasure - these yearly markers of time passing. One tells me ever-so-gently that I'm putting the potatoes in the ground incorrectly. He knows how to do this better than I (and he really does - with his memory and his body that has gardened his whole life. I still look in books). One explains to his sister in great detail and with accuracy just how it is that all that worm poop is good for her peas. She, old enough now to write, makes markers for each crop with an enormous amount of pride. And this year, I feel the kicks of a happy, vibrant boy on my back - the one who was still just a dream himself at planting time last year.
And thus, another season of growing begins.
