There are times, even in the mildest of winters, when it feels as though spring will never come again. Day upon day of dank, grim murky mists and soggy socks stretch out ahead. Even when there is a short string of warm days, it's not like real spring. It's a tease, isn't it, to hear everything melting and having to deal with the dogs dragging in quantities of mud every time they come in from the yard, and know that it is weeks yet before it will be time to play in the dirt, preparing garden beds for the summer growing season.
This week has been one of those interminable grey weeks: Three days in a row of foggy mornings, with the sun reluctantly peeking out this afternoon. It was one of those weeks that makes reaching Friday a major accomplishment. One of those weeks when the dishes don't get done, but at least you remember having something for dinner...how else would the dishes have landed in the sink? One of those weeks when the idea of going to bed before 8 PM makes you as excited as going out dancing used to back in the good ol' days.
But then I wander past my bright little indoor green house, and find this waiting for me: New seedlings, sprouted in a week's time, undeterred by the gray weather outdoors. I love new seedlings. Their two tiny leaves remind me of baby's hands, clapping with joy. It may be the beer talking, but between a hot shower, a little booze, and the sight of these, my world may just turn right again.
Well, all of that and about 14 hours of sleep, too.