Planting

It's 4:37 on a gorgeous Thursday afternoon.

The sky is blue, and there's a soft breeze in the leaves above me. 

I'm sitting on the deck by some newly-potted geraniums listening to "Either Way," a song off Chris Stapleton's new album.

It's a doozy and I love it.

Slays me every time.

(Kind of really like "Broken Halos" too. Maybe like a lot.)

Suddenly my yard is looking full-blown summer.

My trees have leafed out and I'm running the sprinkler.

(Don't you love that familiar tick-tick-tick-tick sound as the water sprays across the yard? I do.)

Last night I was outside as it was beginning to get dark, watering my tomato and pepper plants 

and the mounds of corn I planted along the fence.

I stood on the periphery of the garden, 

soaking future rows of beets, carrots, and beans, hoping that the water will make those seeds burst underground and show their green faces up above soon.

Standing there, I remembered doing that same thing, 

years ago, at home. 

After trips to the greenhouse with my dad,

I sometimes stood on the periphery of that garden showering water--back and forth--over rows of seeds we'd put in the ground. And don't even get me started on the nostalgia I have when it comes to geraniums.

Over the last 9 days, we've been in the dirt a lot.

We've been to greenhouses picking out flowers and vegetables.

The girls and I worked to weed the garden plot and my neighbor tilled it for us.

We've filled pots with flowers and tucked plants into the soil, all the while looking forward to the color of summer and the ways she tastes when you pick and eat fresh.

These rituals bring peace to my life -- a rhythm, and quiet, and simplicity amid all the noise.

There's just something about a porch that has pots spilling with flowers and green, 

vines heavy with vegetables that become food on the table, 

and dirty fingers and a sweaty body from tending the earth.