Stirring the Soil Again

At the moment, I am utterly beguiled by seed packets.

In the blustery aftermath of a March storm, seeds are the message of possibility.  Two days ago, families not far from me were flooded out of their home.  Rain ran in rivers through our downtown, so deep that folks could kayak in it.  Rowboats in Quincy evacuated mothers and children from apartment buildings.  Trees stopped traffic across four lanes of traffic.

What better metaphor for what we need just now, than these infinitesimally tiny grains of life that will gladden and feed us through October once we plunk them into the ground?

Among the infinite number of things that have changed their packaging for big box and plastic in my lifetime, I am grateful beyond words for the local hardware stores that put out their rotating kiosks of paper packets of seeds the first week of March.

The other day I wandered in to buy a few light bulbs, and there it was, taller than I am, crowded with its bright envelopes.  Facing me were the familiar images:  arugula, spinach, squashes, radishes, zinnias, marigolds and more.  Inside, how many acres of new life?

Of course, this is all about hope.  What we need now more than ever.

Seeds are those lovely gems that teach us over and over again that all it takes is a bit of time and elbow grease to make way for the future.

It is time to gird myself with a rake and clear out last year’s moldy leaves.  To reach tenderly around the greening crocuses and daffodils.  To restock the bird bath and oiling the tools.

And while I am at it, to get rid of the old things that are decidedly standing in the way.  Boots that  are taking up space at the back of the closets,  decades worth of floor fans and dusty summer novels in the attic.

In the old days, peasant cultures held spectacular rituals to greet the spring.  Many of them were about “casting out” disease, death, and the evil of the dark, static days of winter.

Straw “dolls” festooned with ribbons and bells were paraded through town, then burned in cleansing rituals.  Water was liberally dowsed on children.  Homes were swept clean and fires set on the tops of the hills.  Children gathered catkins from marshes and carried them home.  There was dancing and candles set aglow in small twig baskets on the lakes.

Our own rituals, even Purim and Easter, seem woefully reduced in light of those earlier days.  And yet, we can each in our own homes and art studios and backyards reach into our imaginations begin in these still chilly and intemperate days to plan for something vibrant and celebratory come the next full moon.

For my part, I stood before that kiosk and let myself go a little crazy, sliding out envelopes, stacking them on the counter – basil and carrots and zucchini.  I decided to spring for a seedling tray and good potting soil.  This brought me back to childhood, and then to early motherhood and the small kitchen gardens I planted with my son.  It planted a small seed of hope – and joy – that the air would soon be filled with birdsong again, and the poems and prayers and praises of a hope-filled heart would join them.

Our lives are blessed with these seasons, and turnings and the compost of the years that have gone before.  We need to take these early spring days to sift and clear and dream.  In so many ways, it is the soil of our lives that we are re-planting come spring.  We are called to prepare for what lies on the other side of a cold, fallow time.

To this end, I carry my seeds home, pull out my basket of ribbons, and buy a dozen eggs to color.  Along the mysterious current of the hidden river within, I feel a new humming.