A journal entry from 31
January 2014
I am longing for spring – even as I see peeps of it in the
small drops of much-needed rain –
as the scent of something fragrant fills not just my nose
but my entire being and spirit –
as the buds hang still hard and small.
It is just there though. Drought and all, waiting. The
promise of potential.
Tiny daffodils have appeared in the garden bed in the last
week and a whole truly-secret garden of them lines the quiet unused passage
near the southern edge of the cottage and greenhouse. 
I couldn’t contain the impulse to investigate a few days
ago. And so I wandered, a camera in hand, another hanging from my neck, from
bush to twig to limb to bed of dirt, looking for signs.
Signs of hope? Of renewal?
It’s far too early for spring – in a calendared way of
calculating.
And much too dry in an already-arid land that has had but
a few handfuls of small rain during these winter months. The grass is
yellow-white, nearly dead.
Yet there are buds. Fat and slender. Dark rust. Red.
Green-olive. White. Each one a world of beauty awaiting birth. An almost-ready universe.
My week has grown into sprouts of wild things. A yard of
life on the edge of becoming overgrown. I’ve had a few vast expanses of
panoramic views, and a few other moments of digging into the soil searching for
the worms, like the jays did the other day as I watched from my desk.
I wait for the unfolding. The spring. The details. The next
movement into becoming.
All blog images created and/or photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
