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I’ve got that itch. You know the one. The one where you are hungry for green and growing things. Eager for hands in fertile soil and ground bursting with potential. Excited for daffodils and tulips and all those wishes you planted last fall finally finding the sun. So you collect seeds and stare longingly at garden catalogs and dream about your garden. You add your compost and hay and not-so-patiently wait for time and the elements to do their work. This, perhaps surprisingly, is one of the harder parts of gardening and of soul tending. We want the blooms. The splashy spring flowers and the delicious snap peas, the red radishes and the orange carrots. We look for signs of growth in green shoots poking through the earth and snowdrops and grape hyacinths dotting our landscape. And why shouldn’t we? These things nourish the soil and the soul. But here’s the thing: it’s also important to appreciate the fallow periods. There are no flowers and delicious spring herbs without rest. We put our gardens to bed in the fall. We cover them in compost and soil amendments, mulch and TLC. It’s an essential part of any healthy growing period. The soil needs time to rest and revitalize. It’s unsustainable for it to always be producing. Even the bees and other beneficial insects overwinter in hollowed-out flower stems and dried-up seed pods. It’s not glamorous, but it’s perhaps one of the deepest forms of magic: letting things be. Allowing things to rest. Permitting time to do the work. Not pushing forward but rooting into the moment. I tell this to myself, repeatedly, as I grumble and ache for signs of growth. In my garden. In my life. In the deepest of dreams, buried in soil like garlic and onion bulbs. But then I take a breath, especially on days like today, ones that tease spring, though surely we will get one more snow before the seasons fully shift. I remember that life—soul seeds and turnip seeds—cannot come into this world without a gestation period. We prize green shoots that usher in a new season. But long before they appear in our garden beds, the seeds have been quietly resting, stratifying, and cracking open to deepen their roots. A whole winter goes by as they find a way to shake loose their husks and transform into something more. They learn what they can become in the darkness. Without witness and without visible progress. A lot goes on beneath the surface, in other words, when we’re looking at growth. Sometimes it’s a feeling. Sometimes, a shift in perspective. Other times, it’s a conversation that washes over your body, making you feel whole. Sometimes, it’s not overworking the soil in your desire to get things moving. These aren’t things we can easily explain or check off a list. The deeper work is often so subtle that we might miss that we’re doing it as we go about our day. But isn’t that the magic? Showing up, being present, and attending our daily tasks even if we don’t get the immediate gratification of visible results. Our time and care do the work. Rest is important in a culture that values productivity. We are conditioned to push forward and manufacture success. But that kind of artificial progress isn’t sustainable and rarely leads to meaningful growth. Real change is almost imperceptible as it is happening. It takes over slowly, in the small acts and intentions we bring to our days, and we only know the change has rooted within us when we look back at what felt like a dormant period and see irises and crocus flowers in our wake. So, as I gaze toward spring, I pause. I relish the remains of this fallow period, grateful for the darkness and the quiet that help us make our way toward the light in the spring. What soul seeds have you been tending this winter?
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