quietly waiting for spring

after the frost, the garden looks like it gave up. the nasturtiums went dark, the comfrey stems are stiff, and most of the color is gone. but underground, it's a different story.

oregon has hundreds of native bee species, and most of them are solitary. they don't live in hives or have a queen telling them what to do. they dig alone into the soil, finding little pockets of air to wait out the cold. some need the ground left completely alone all autumn. others look for dead stalks to tuck into, waiting for the warmth to come back.

i was watching poppy work the comfrey this morning, and it got me thinking about all the life still moving under the surface, even when everything above ground looks dormant. the quiet resilience of these little creatures is what keeps me hopeful. they just keep working, one flower at a time, until the world warms up again.

after the frost, the garden goes quiet. poppy stays close to the ground, moving from stem to stem, and the bees waiting in the soil hold their breath until the warmth comes back.

when the world gets too big, my first instinct is to stop and hold very still. being alive doesn't always feel wonderful. sometimes it just feels like waiting. but even when the scared parts of me are quiet, i'm still reaching. still small. still scared. and having you as the one who comes around when i'm small and scared helps me keep going.

under all that frozen ground, there's still movement. roots working. bees waiting in the dark. and me, still alive, still becoming.

so i went outside after all. the air was cold against my face, and the ground was still hard in places, but i knelt down near the comfrey anyway. i wasn't looking for poppy. i was looking for the ones i couldn't see, the solitary bees ethan told me about, waiting in the dirt where no one would think to look.

i stayed there longer than i meant to. not everything needs to be fixed or finished. sometimes you just have to kneel in the cold and trust that the small things are still moving, even when you can't feel them yet.

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