Waxing Wedding Moon

What a difference a couple of weeks make. There was still snow on the ground when I last wrote, and I was feeling frustrated that I couldn't do much in the garden.

Now, Spring is here at last, and Westacre is bursting into flower. We have primroses and cowslips, daffodils and lungwort. The first few forget-me-nots are coming out. Soon, they will be a sea of blue across the garden.

And I have planted vegetables. Finally, at long last, I have dug over two of the four vegetable beds and put in potatoes, peas, beans, carrots, onions and parsnips. I just cannot wait for the little seedlings to start peeking out of the ground.

Working with the soil is such a blessing. Seeing the soft ground break easily against my garden fork. Pulling up weeds and finding big fat earth worms - a sign of healthy soil. It sealed my connection with this sandy loam that I have been working on since I got here at the Winter Solstice. Who would ever have thought that I would actually relish this work? My teenage self definitely wouldn't.

Doing hands-on work with the land is so healing. It has settled me into this place like nothing else could. My nerves that were jittery from the move and the hard work have calmed. I feel purposeful and I couldn't be happier. The whole thing is so exciting that I have to stop myself from going to check the plot every half hour to see if anything has sprouted yet.

As I touch the living soil of my home, I weave my soul into the tapestry of this place. As I plant and weed, I put my mark on the land. I become a part of it. And when (fingers crossed), we consume the harvest, our land will become part of us.

This things are very real, and so very lost to most of us in the Western world. Even people who have gardens either barely look after them (I know I used not to - life in London was just too hectic), or plant flowers. The essential life connection with the Earth who feeds us has become removed from us, mediated by wholesale and supermarket. Scrubbed clean and packaged for our convenience. We have uprooted ourselves and wonder that we feel lost.

If you are reading this, and you don't grow your own food yet, try it. You don't need three quarters of an acre. All it takes is a flower pot, some potting compost, and some seeds. Choose your favourite herb and grow it on your window sill. Feel the soil in your hands, put the seed - your intent for connection - into the pot, and wait for the miracle. Few things in life are more rewarding.