I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year, “Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.” And he replied, “Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be better to you than light, and safer than a known way.”
M. Louise Haskins
On a cold, crisp night in early January, I sat on the floor surrounded by seed packets, small paper sacks, and plastic tubs, with a notebook on my lap, and I waited for my usual enthusiasm to arrive.
It did not.
For the last few years, ever since we moved onto this land, midwinter has come with an almost painful need to prepare for and plan the year’s garden. I usually get so excited that I start my earliest cold-crop seeds on New Year’s Day, something I can get away with in our relatively temperate zone. Kale, cabbage, onions, leeks, and other winter greens are the first seeds I sow. I know I have to wait longer for them to germinate in the thin winter light, but I don’t care. By the first stirrings of January, I need soil beneath my fingers.
This year, so far, is different.
Last year’s garden was not as fruitful as I had hoped. Some of this was my fault, and some of this was completely out of my control. Weather, unchecked pests, bad timing, and a general sense of overwhelm all worked together to make probably the least satisfying garden year we’ve had, so far.
This isn’t to say we didn’t have some victories, but they were small. Last year felt like a step back. And I hate that. I hate stepping back.
So sitting on the floor, surrounded by my storehouse of seeds, I didn’t feel my usual excitement. I felt afraid.
What if nothing works out? What if I throw all this work behind something that ultimately fails? What if I’m just kidding myself, and all of this gardening stuff really isn’t my gift?
Here’s the truth: I wish I could turn around and tell you that I talked myself out of my fear and into a better frame of mind. I wish I could say that I found my enthusiasm through the simple, powerful step of getting started, of putting pencil to paper.
I didn’t. I’m still scared.
And you know what? I’ve decided that that’s okay.
When we step over the threshold of a new year, it’s a milestone. It causes us to pause, to reflect. It’s arbitrary, manmade time, but it’s still a doorway. And sometimes, the reflections aren’t positive ones. We think back on the year behind us and it does not inspire hope in what is coming.
What if nothing changes? What if it gets worse?
But we will plant anyway.
Yes, dear ones. We will plant anyway.
I will plant my garden. I will scale back some of my expectations, certainly, but I will plant. I will drop hope into the earth, like I do every year. And I will do it afraid.
Our seasons are circular. Our God is circular. Our hope is circular. The dark recedes, eventually, and the light grows. Our ancestors worried, every single winter, that the light might not come back.
What if this is the year when the sun disappears?
But it doesn’t. It returns. And the people we came from planted hope in the earth, and they did it afraid, every time.
In this thin winter light, it can be difficult to see the way forward. But the path is a circle. The light is returning. And when we move forward, afraid, we find the ground beneath us, solid, and ready for what miracles may come.
Thank you for reading!
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One of the things I like about gardening/farming, the source of much of my figurative language about "peasantly" living, is that it is very directly tied up with the will of God.
We can't control the weather, we can't control pests--all we can do is our best. We can plant with good intentions, try our best to get the timing right, try our best to care for and protect our crop, and what's the result? A storm blows in and drowns one garden, an unseasonable plague of locusts devours the next. The end result at the harvest is quite literally the Will of God. That's why harvest time is always worth celebrating. Even if it is small, it is what God wills us to reap. If it is bountiful--all the more cause for rejoicing.
It is a good exercise for humbling ourselves before the will of God in all aspects of our lives. Where are our expectations getting ahead of us? Where is God trying to teach us something? Where are we not happy with what He has given us? Is it God's fault that we are not happy, or ours?
I hope this year's crop turns out precisely as God wills it for you, and I hope your fear is eased by knowing that, while you may be the one doing the reaping and sowing, God does the growing.
God bless you!
“We will plant anyway”.... this was an encouraging read and I love how the gardening metaphor applies to all of life. After a rough year last year, I find myself afraid to plant anything this year. I love this idea of our ancestors planting hope and how we continue planting, even when things aren’t how we dreamed. We still grow, and grow in hope. 🙌