This week I have planted baby carrots, cos lettuce, capsicum and strawberries.
And poppies for spring. I can't wait for the poppies.
I am crossing fingers and tending carefully and hoping that there will be some sort of reward for sowing and caring for the seeds and seedlings.
There is so much to learn. I wonder if my thumb will turn green.
This evening was a still-warm, summery one. The sky has been brilliant with its fairy floss pinks, and we pottered about post bathtime re-dirtying feet.
My parents are natural gardeners.
I often smile when I think of them at this dusk time of night.
I know they'll be pottering about in the garden too, they way they did through my childhood.
My brother and I would climb the swing set, or play on the trampoline as dad hand watered their much loved gardens. Mum would be sweeping or raking, or tidying something.
It drew us outdoors too.
To eat peas straight off the vine, clad in our dressing gowns and ugg boots in the cold spring air. Or turn our fingers and lips purple as we picked mulberries in summer.
And, with a less-natural and very conscious effort I tend to our tiny veggie patch.
To draw my three outside.
To share with them the delight in seeing the tiny shoots of green, invisible the day before, burst through the soil. So they would feel the change in seasons by the sun on their faces, the wind on their cheeks.
So they would notice sunsets and seasons and seedlings.
So they would slow down, and notice growing things.
The same way I try to slow, and notice these growing little people.