Notes from March — Garden Beginnings, Ancestral Conversations, Spring Rhythms
April 15, 2026
I lay down this evening, quietly delighted by the budding red maple just outside my window. I find myself dreaming of berries this year. Even if the bare root blueberries give little to no fruit, I’m content knowing that something long-term is taking root. The strawberry plants are in, herbs have been potted, and there have been frequent trips to the garden center—gathering what’s needed for the grow bags and what’s to come.
The trees have had their light pruning, and I found myself needing to purchase horticultural oil to tend to a few crape myrtles that succumbed to scale last summer. Small acts of care, steady and necessary.
This month carried an interesting twist — the old and the new rising together. There were deep, earthy conversations within the family around life, hardship, trust, and the anchoring force of our ancestral past. My oldest daughter began reading Jambalaya: The Natural Woman’s Book of Personal Charms and Practical Rituals by Luisah Teish. I’ve long appreciated her presence, but had never read her work. It felt right to enter it this way, with my daughter leading. From it came rich conversations — about womanhood, our roots, and the body as the whole and sacred vessel of connection to spirit.
With the arrival of the spring equinox, our homeschooling days shifted gently. We found ourselves returning to poetry and artwork that reflect the season, while also taking a closer look at the movement of the equinoxes and solstices — how they meet, turn, and are reflected in everything.
Two of my sons are currently in physical therapy, each for very different reasons. Even so, these sessions have become life skills in their own right — teaching them how to care for their bodies, how to listen, how to tend to themselves with awareness. In my own life, I’ve seen how often that awareness is lost or overlooked in men, and it deepens my commitment to root it early in my sons.
The weather is warming now, and with it comes a quiet anticipation. I find myself envisioning simple things — visits to the beach, wandering through nearby woods, growing and harvesting our food, reading, and resting more fully in the sun.
March has felt like a threshold — where care, memory, and new growth meet in the same space. Nothing rushed, nothing forced. Just the steady unfolding of what is ready to come forward.