March 16, 2025
The cold sting is slowly leaving the morning air. The shadows are less long, and the days are reaching for more light. In Belgium, we celebrate coming out of the time of candles by melting the wax of the old ones for next year. Seeds that were prepared last fall are now in the greenhouse, prepping to go on stage. The ground is slowly waking up, still snuggling in the blanket of hay we put from cleaning the goat and pony stable.
We are on the last of our firewood, as we finished the remains of a cherry tree we chopped down two summers ago. We are debating about buying more. A farmer couple dropped off a new load of hay and straw this morning. The goats and ponies are eating more, and the chickens are beginning to lay more eggs. The pear blossoms flirt with spring, only to be jilted by the late frost. In fact, spring flirts with us all, only to play hard to get.
These are the real signposts. These are the new lenses. My art and spirit remain.
I’ve turned off my news since November. If the end of the world is coming, could someone please text me?
