Friday, March 29, 2013

hope, that feathered thing

I leave the house at seven with a cup of hot tea and walk up the road to our studio, housed in the upstairs of my grandparents' barn/garage. With two feet of snow still on the ground this is the time of year when garden plans become outrageous, obsessive. I draw sketches of hoop houses, raised beds, cold frames, bean tipis, sunflower houses, peach trees, plum trees, apple orchards. I forget about the blisters shovels cause and how hard it is to even get out the door with two kids and how much loads of manure cost. Who cares about any of that now? All that matters is that sometime, not too long from now, there will be green in my life. Rebirth. Resurrection. The full moon that kept us all up the last week has many Native American names: Fish moon, sleepy moon, windy moon, big famine moon, moon when eyes are sore from bright snow, moon of winds, chaste moon, death moon. Every one of which seem appropriate. My garden sketches are a prayer of sorts. They are me on my knees begging. They are hope, which is imperative, and yes, is the thing with feathers. How grow your dream gardens,  friends? 

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me. 

-Emily Dickenson