Prioritize. Question: what is most important?
Note her blooming! Not green shoots--blooms.
Nature's incessantly beating me to it.
It is not too early to plant. Mark it, the proof: she is always planting. She planted a season ago, and prepared her soil before anyone had ever uttered the name John Deer or Massey Ferguson.
Spring is here.
Summer is here.
It is not time to engage in the rites of Spring; it is time to engage in the rites of Summer.
Somewhere, in the only unseen corner of the universe--the spot right before our very eyes--Nature is hiding in a dark temple--the light of day, and with her furtive priests is making advances on the rites of Fall, and next Spring.
How natural am I?
Am I attuned to these perceptible anticipations?
In what rites of Fall am I now employed?
How natural are my methods?
One lifelong farmer says, "I would love to be a workin' if it would only stop raining. If it would dry up for just a week, I could work the soil."
But the thought, "I am a slave to my singular method," never occurs to him, because it never occurred to his father, or his.
How natural am I? How many are my methods?
Kentucky clay is wet and cold, a seed-rotting bed; but Nature is infinite.
Look at her, blooming!
She has prepared another kind of bed--it is ours to imitate.
Is there a warmer bedding?
For my backyard, for a paddock, for acres?...
In the foreseeable forecast there is rain and sun and moon and days--the perfect growing environment.
Nature is infinite.
Nature cannot be improved upon.
It is ours to imitate.
What am I doing sitting here, writing? It is time to engage in the rites of Spring!
Originally published on March 17th, 2013