With much of my life in a pandemic-related stand-still, I’ve been looking to my garden for activity.
Last year, my first year gardening, I eagerly awaited mid-May — the “last frost” date in my planting zone” — to start planting. I didn’t get that I was supposed to plant seeds in planting trays indoors months ahead of time, rearing sturdy seedlings to deposit into the earth come May. Or that, in fact, many seeds (most greens, cabbages, peas and radishes, for example) can be planted outdoors much earlier — right after St. Patricks Day, in fact.
So this year I was determined maximize the season. Armed with lists of what to start and transplant when, I started seedlings indoors back in March — two kinds of peppers, tomatoes, onions, scallions, leeks, eggplants, peas, edamame, kale, cabbage, collards. We built a small greenhouse and I transferred the seed trays — some already sprouting seedlings, some still dormant — and started even more.
But there was no heat source in the greenhouse, and we had a couple of cold spells well below freezing. We had snow. And more snow. And hail. All right up until mid-May. Again and again I transferred the many trays of seedlings back into the house when cold weather was coming, but at least once I was caught by surprise.
The hardier seeds — the greens and peas and some scallions — took root and persevered. But my sweet little tomato seedlings succumbed to the cold, and the peppers and eggplants never came up at all.
In my eagerness to get a head start, I tried to force those seeds that thrive in warm weather to expedite their arrival into the world. But mama nature will not be rushed, and those particular seeds will never come to fruition.
In my coaching training and other spiritual work, I’ve been taught to honor the energetic “winters” we all go through — times when we need to go dormant or into the depths of self-inquiry, to recharge, to allow things in our life that are no longer serving to die and wait for the inspiration to conceive what’s meant to come next.
As I wrote about here, I’ve learned that a key to slowing down is surrendering to the innate wisdom of the seasons. Winter wants us to go inward into contemplation, gestation, rest (especially in a climate often covered with a foot of snow from November to March). Early Spring is for planting and cultivating the seeds of new endeavors; late spring and early summer call for even more action as seeds start to sprout and bear fruit. In late summer there’s an inevitable lull, a need for some rest and play in anticipation of fall, which brings a new round of productivity along with reflection and reconciliation on the year.
But old habits — of rushing, of trying to control that which is inherently beyond control — die hard. And as with meditation practice, the next step after awareness is to start again — by planting new seeds and letting them take their time.
