As each old year ends and the new one begins, I plant something. It doesn’t really matter what it is, and it doesn’t really matter if it grows. It often does not. That’s not the point. I need to grow something to greet the new year. I need to feel Spring inside me and bring it closer. By January, I am already tired of Winter. I need Spring, even if only in a promise, in a dream.
This pot of paper white bulbs on my kitchen sill is this year’s dream, reaching out its eager, hopeful arms to March.