Every spring I am possessed by the need to plant things. This urge ignites when I see perennials begin to emerge after their frigid winter in our zone 3 climate. I am elated when apparently lifeless plants poke brave shoots out of the earth to greet the spring with verdant vigor. It is a kind of special magic. Old magic. Triumphant.
On the Victoria Day weekend, I dig out my box of seeds, some left from last year, some restocked from colourful seed catalogues during the winter months. I sort through them, ponder which vegetables to grow this year , which plot to put them in and which rows they should occupy. I record this, along with the date, varieties etc. in a garden journal I have kept since 1993. I don’t often consult the journal the rest of the year, but it is part of the ritual of planting. Our older cat, Thomas, oversees these important decisions and protects the seed packages from any curious birds. Ok, mostly he just likes to lay in the sunshine. He is having his own blissful moments. I love patting soil over the seeds, watering them, and waiting, not so patiently, for little green plants begin to pop up. The fresh, earthy smell of water hitting the soil that first time sends me back to my childhood and I am very, very, happy.