touching four seasons

We've fallen into a season-driven existence here. And I don't mean simply seasonal eating. The seasons drive the cycles of our days, too. In the height of last summer, we were spending tons of time outside--my work days were bookended by garden watering and tending; we ate out on the patio, then worked in the garden or walked the trail, not coming inside until dark at 9 or 10. It was projects galore. In the depths of this winter, our garden soil is so frozen that we can't even hack out our last few carrots and beets. We tuck the animals in for the night at 3:30 or 4--although yesterday we noticed we were coming back from the sheep barn at 4:30 and it wasn't yet dark, a milestone!--and then we hunker down inside by the wood stove for evenings of cooking, playing board games, and playing music. The rain shushes on the roof and wind roars in the trees. The windows are vast and dark and show nothing at all except the reflections of the cheeriness inside.

Yet, as I am cooking dinner tonight, with the wood stove flaring orangey-red across the room, fall and summer and spring feel close. I'm cooking potatoes and carrots from our fall garden, and  roasted tomatoes (the last, sob!) from summer. They're so sweet I think they might conjure summer right here, like a potion, if I purée and drink them. And spring is on the mind; our seed order is on its way this very minute and we'll start seeding in the greenhouse in just about a month. I can feel it—the lighter evenings, the salad greens, the radishes. 

We may appear deep in hibernation, but the ground is thrumming. For a moment, the dark windows are full of promise.