The Anticipation

Like so many others, I love this time of year: the still of winter gives way to the activity of spring. The heavy, snowy silence suddenly bursts into the lively chatter of birds and awakening animals. (Even as I write, the trumpet of geese returning home echoes through our house.) What was dark becomes light. As the temperatures become bearable, the desire to “do” is evident in every neighbor clearing their yard, washing their cars, and generally wearing way too few layers for this time of year. Forty degrees? That’s a heatwave! 

Spring is an awakening . . . a shaking off . . . a sigh, a stretch, a step out. And it is a season of expectation. As brief as it is, spring is a season of hope. In this short time, we look forward to what is to come. We unconsciously prepare for the bustle of summer and the harvest of fall. In spring, we invest in what we don’t doubt as truth: summer will come and bring all its bounty. As we hustle about in the sun, we will be restored and re-energized. We will reconnect with loved ones around picnic tables and bonfires. We’ll explore, push ourselves, and stay out a little too late. In spring, we build ourselves up to all these expectations of what is to come. 

There is a sensation of total delight as I watch the first of my seedlings pop to life in their trays. Vibrant green shoots, well, shoot out of the ground and reach their tiny leaves to the light, coaxing them into being. And I’m struck that, in itself, this is an act of faith. Winter is still a threat. I’m starting these baby plants in the safety (relative safety; this is a construction zone afterall) of the house, assisted by the artificial light our Minnesota days can’t provide quite yet. But I’m believing that the seed I put in the dirt will grow into a mature plant and produce food that I will enjoy around the table with others. With one simple act of planting a seed, I am creating a future of harvest, celebration, and fellowship. 

So with a salute of my morning (now decaf) coffee: here's to planting futures, whatever they may be, one tiny seed at a time.