a sense of urgency.

the other night ... as we slunk back inside ... not quite tired out enough from a few quick races around the yard ... several ups and downs on the slide ... and the attempt to get cora to sit. in. the. swing. (not sure why she's not having any of that thus far this spring?) ...

i realized this overwhelming sense of urgency that is stirring in me.

i want to get my hands dirty.

my little garden is calling to me. it's begging me to start digging in the dirt. and beckoning me to deposit little seedlings in the soil. it's requesting that the husband stretch it out (just... a... little ... bit... farther...) into the yard this year.

i think starting seeds would be a (wintertime - early spring-ish) passion for me. i would love to watch little greens spout out just above the dark damp earth ... in small little cups or handy egg cartons. i would love to know that i started them. to know that i guided them. (is that silly? a bit like having children?)

but i can't. or don't. (i'm not sure which.)

i have a fear that the cats would wreak havoc on the little greens in cups designed to be easily tipped and trampled across the wooden floors. i don't have enough room in this little house for me and the kids and the husband (part-time) and the animals ... AND baby plants who need sunlight. or artificial light in the form of lamps that i just don't have the room for.

so i settle for friends and neighbors that start little seedlings. and share their wealth. and i think that this option is just as lovely, because i tend to think of these friends all season long when the peapods are nourishing my family. or when my girls are peeling baby tomatoes from the plentiful plants for months, popping them into their mouths like candy.

and i settle for stopping by nurseries and exploring ... finding the little plants that my garden is ever-so-patiently waiting for. often buying too many or too much. and yet ... always finding room for them in pots and wagons and on the porch.

for now ... i reach ... often ... for the catalogs and books that sit upon shelves. flipping through their pages and dreaming of bigger gardens and more time.
and as the snow coats the brown grass (for ... please-oh-please ... let it be the last time ...) and the temperatures sway from warm to cold and back again ...

my little garden calls out to me ... and i whisper back ... soon ...

soon.