On this last day of official winter, the air smells and tastes of spring.
It began brilliantly sunny, and will end that way, too. For now, though, the clouds hang low, sprinkling the land with the scent, if not the fact, of the moisture that lies hidden in their mass. It is cold — at dawn, the mercury had not passed fifteen, and the wind now makes the air seem icier than it should — but the green that rises, inexorably, from an earth no longer dormant will not be denied.
The land now is nearly as much green as gold, the new blades of grass braided thoroughly with the old. The spring birds are already here, and those who migrate over us far later in the season, the sandhill cranes, appeared for the first time yesterday evening. What little snow remains on the peaks, even in the aftermath of yesterday’s storm, looks more like lace fretwork than a blanket, and it will be gone soon enough.
It is time already to turn our attention to the planting season.
Here, that its no small task. The ditches must be cleaned and cleared, a task involving sweat and fire both. The land needs tilling; the pond and ditches, filling. Irrigation is required, and in a thawless spring, no melt and thus no runoff, that presents its own special challenges. But even before the water comes, such water as we pray there may be, there are other tasks that need doing.
In the old days, plough and traces would have been pressed into use anew. A horse would have been hitched and Wings’s father would have looped the near end of the traces over his shoulders and followed behind, guiding the blade on its proper path through still-cold soil. My own father knew the same task well, as did his father before him.
Now, we no longer plant in the same volume as our parents did. The ditches are all that need digging, a chore now accomplished by tractor and finished off by hand. The hay in the fields needs no furrows; the gardens are small enough to hoe by hand, as well. The old plough remains, an artifact of an older time not so very old at all, its front end weighted down with heavy local rocks that look like the eggs of some creature giant and ancient.
It’s an image that always speaks to me of the line between winter and spring, both the purpose of the plough and the presence of stone eggs. It is a time of renewal, and yet dormancy still holds sway; a time for the building of nests and the laying of eggs, yet far too cold and early for them to hatch. It’s a time to look forward, to plant and sow and till and cultivate, in preparation for a harvest to feed the new generation — and yet, none of it would happen, could happen without the gift of lessons from those older yet than we.
Weathered wood, rusted iron, and eggs made of stone: These are the things of which this place is made, animated by modest, humble spirits that nonetheless show us how to make it anew. This is our task, to keep this earth well for those who come later, that they may feed themselves and others from it too.
There is no planting without preparation, no sowing without first tilling the soil.
Tomorrow is the first official day of spring. It is time to turn — and turn to — the earth once more.
~ Aji
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