A Year of Gratitude – March 26, 2024
I found gratitude in new growth today. There’s something awe inspiring about watching as a barren patch of soil sprouts new, vibrant growth. It seems magical, and perhaps it is.
Spring brings a renewed love of growing things, of a fresh start to the growing season ahead. The trials and frustrations from last year are distant enough now to be a memory instead of a fresh transgression. Time has allowed them to soften a bit.
Sure, I remember that wild turkeys wandered into the garden far too often, nibbling away each colorful stalk of Swiss chard just as it was big enough for me to harvest. Yes, I remember that late frost that decimated the flowering fruit crop before it ever had a chance to mature. And everyone here in New England remembers just how rainy it was. We didn’t see the sun for days on end and neither did our gardens.
Yet as I sit here today, I have hope for the season ahead. Perhaps this will be one of those years when the weather will be cooperative. Maybe the turkeys will decide that they prefer the salad bar at my neighbor’s garden. With any luck, we won’t have a late season frost to contend with.
There are so many lessons to be learned in the garden. Patience must be practiced. You simply can’t rush nature. Seeds germinate in due time. Vines grow as the sun shines and soil feeds them. Flowers wait for pollinators to visit. Fruit develops slowly. It grows and matures sometimes at a slow pace only to be sacrificed to the weather or unwelcome visitors.
Disappointment and unpredictability is part of the bargain. The season rarely goes the way I have planned. Something I plant and tend to faithfully will fail. A handful of seeds that I scatter randomly without much care at all will flourish unexpectedly.
A garden is a window to the soul of the gardener. They’re both fertile, living things that hold such promise. They try to grow and be productive, facing so many obstacles and hurdles in the process. With care and work, they can produce such a bountiful harvest. With neglect, they become fallow and unwelcome invasive weeds take hold.
As a gardener, I try to hold on to hope. Even dormant ground, or a gardener’s heart and soul, can be tended to. It takes patience and an understanding of how it came to be in this state. The work to restore takes more effort due to the neglect, but there is still hope to be held on tight to.
Today, I am grateful for that hope. It wasn’t lost on me today that this tiny fiddlehead fern had sprouted into the shape of a heart. Perhaps it is a good sign of the growing season to come. Maybe it is a reminder that hope can fill fallow ground long before it has been restored.
Whatever lesson this little fern was intended to teach me, I was listening. I’ll hold that hope in my pocket as I remind myself that where there is hope, growth and beautiful things are possible.
This post is part of our A Year of Gratitude Series. You can find the introduction, inspiration, and entire year’s gratitude’s posts here.