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Last year's daffodils

Today I wake to the sun shining in the California blue sky. That brilliant shade of blue that told I was home when I arrived in Northern California.

A vestige of melting frost glitters on the grass under the clothes line as I hang up some linens to dry. I know it’s still January, more rainstorms are promised for tomorrow, but for today the soft whisper of spring hangs in the air. Tim has planted tulip and daffodil bulbs in pots once again and their green shoots are poking through the soil, a promise that life is reborn again and again.

Old things pass away, and something new and just as beautiful always arises in its place.

A riot of color will arrive when the tulips bloom, but first the daffodils will nod their sunny heads even through the lashing rains and despite the frosty mornings. They’re hardy like that, unlike the tulips whose petals might scatter when the wild winds blow in off the Pacific. Each tells me a different story, just as each year they’re back again long after I’ve forgotten to mourn their disappearance.

If I can step away from the work-a-day routine, take a walk and look down I will likely see the fragile beginnings of the coming season’s wild plant profusion. My herbal allies and the simple wild weeds. The sun after a rain brings them out. If I slowed my steps and just watched for long enough I could probably see those little shoots grow a bit taller.

That’s why today’s writing vignette is short. All of those plants, that blue sky, that sunshine are beckoning me, pulling me. Come on out they call. Out. Out.

Today is the perfect day to plant my little seed of confidence into the garden. The one I poked into a pot on the day of the new moon. Now the crescent moon is growing and I’m ready to seed the inner and outer garden.

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