My little red wagon is back in action and now my soul is starting to breathe again. I have finally understood how important a garden is to me. In February I started yearning for those first, secret signs of Spring—the blushing trees, the emerging scents of earth—but there is not enough of Nature here to see her subtle dance. And so I started trawling through garden centers, gathering plants and repotting them so they can thrive for a season before they are committed to the ground. Lilac, delphinium—old friends that will not grow in the South—peonies and poppies; fledgling hostas and camellias brought from “home” all now sing out to Nature in their Spring Song. And this morning I danced to their melody.
My little red wagon has been cleaned and stocked with my garden implements, so it can follow me as I meander through my garden tasks. More than a practical tool, it represents the childlike joy that I find in having my face near the soil, smelling its fecundity, watching the small miracles emerging from the dirt. I may no longer be able to hop into the wagon and fly with abandon down a hill, but my soul can still fly with joy in communion with the garden.