I am not old. In fact, some might call me still young. I am 32 in fact (I think...perhaps I am 31 or 33...I can never keep track.) I often feel old though. Perhaps it is the 4 babies I have grown and carried and the 3 surgeries that went with them, but my body feels the aches and pains and creaks and plain old aging of the old. When I feel age, it makes me think ahead, and while I am not particularly scared of death, I don't particularly like to think about it.
Perhaps it is the birthing of babies that drives this maternal instinct to see things born and raised. Perhaps it is just the passing of time and the aging of myself that causes me to celebrate more heartily the beginning and not the end of things. Perhaps it is simply my passion for the garden and my gratefulness that the long winter has passed and I can start playing again.
Whatever the cause, spring is the reason. I run around with a little Celtic Irish drummer in my head and a tiny dancer in my soul, all for the joy of pushing seeds into soil. I feel more joy than a stockbroker with a peaking line graph in hand when I have a new trowel and sharp clippers in mine. The first shoots of each group of plants, pushing up through the soil each spring, are mini-celebrations each time they are sought after and seen. It is a race with no pressure -- a joy with no downside -- an addiction with no backlash, save a few dirty fingernails.