It is a perfect early Spring day — warm sun, cool breeze. After three days of rain, there is a lushness of green, the soothing scent of lawns being mowed. Across the street our neighbor is planting the row of Impatiens that will glow pink and plentiful along his walkway in another month. The seeds I started much too early, encouraged by early warm weather, are flourishing in their separate pots — swarms of marigolds grown from the seeds of last year’s plants that will wind up as companion plantings in our vegetable garden; some strange husky ground cherries that I hope will make it this year; clumps of zinnias to perk up quiet corners. And, of course, oregano, parsley, rosemary, basil, and nettle in pots — and stevia, thyme, and yarrow (so far) already growing in the dark soil, along with carefully tended vegetables.
This is really my idea of paradise.
While a few days on a beach of white sand along a clear blue shoreline is something I would, no doubt, enjoy, when it comes to living each day feeling connected to place and people, this is about as close to paradise as I can imagine getting.
This afternoon, as I sat in the shade, reading and relaxing, I watched a small flock of tiny sparrows loudly investigate the colorful bird house that my daughter whipped up one afternoon from lumber scraps stashed in the cellar. We are waiting to see if any of them will actually take up residence. All kinds of things get re-created around here — re-envisioned and reformatted with a little paint and ingenuity. An old pallet becomes a vertical background for plants; thick slices of the tree that had to be cut down after the big October storm become outdoor seats and tables; an old framed window becomes the door to the garden. This is a place of constant renewal and re-imagining, a place of thriving and growing and appreciating. It is a place with ageless air, a place where growing is simply the way each day goes, even when spring moves on.