Spring is staying closed pretty tightly this year. I’m ready to plant everything: my 25 varieties of tomatoes are almost two feet high, and my 30-some sweet peppers are bigger than ever before. But the ground isn’t ready for anything other than potatoes, peas, and cool-weather plants like chard, kale and some of the herbs. The crazy viny pumpkins and butternuts will have to go crazy under lights a while longer.
I know how they feel. I’ve learned some patience but not a lot. I still start seeds too early for this climate, and I still pull the first tomatoes as soon as they’ve colored up. Papabear laughs at me for it.
I was the same way when we started to live a control-and-compliance life together. I wanted everything all at once. I wanted to already BE THERE, not to move slowly toward where we are how or where we have yet to go. I was wrong. If we had somehow tesseracted straight to where we are now, I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of hearing what Papabear had to say about it every step of the way. We would have ended up somewhere I was imagining rather than in the naturally grown garden we live in now.
Spring makes me wait, too. Especially this cold year, I am being taught the lesson I may never fully learn: wanting to see the end while standing at the beginning isn’t just futile and frustrating; it ignores and denigrates the lush, beautiful winding path to wherever the end may be, if there is one.