January Windows

I have come to love January. On the surface, its weather and temperatures are predictably unpredictable and people and animals (read: CATS) can become irritable and boxed in. Although really that could be just the detox from December's sugar and catnip. Still, January has a special hopefulness about it. It is when we first see, and really feel, the light returning. In December, it is just a silent prayer-- this light-- but in January we see it manifest.

In this month, we look back at what was and into what will be. It is a month of turning, of inner change--of deep, subtle, meaningful movements. Like a deep ocean current or a low winter wind, it is a game changer. January is a threshold month-- it holds a balance of light, seasons, years, past and present. It is a thin window-- a light veil between future and history-- and sometimes between hope and dismay.



Saved pole bean seed-- a mystery variety from Fedco and our treasured Scarlet Runner Bean.



Ella helping with some soybean.

We boldly keep circling this sun; we keep hoping for our utopian future in the face of our endless mistakes. It is this tendency toward hope that makes us unique-- and maybe a beautiful disaster. January reminds us to chin up, give it a go-- what is hard truly makes us. We have to decide how or what, exactly, we will be.

As the garden sleeps, January offers itself as a balance. It gives us a little time. Here, on this little homestead, we usually finally catch up on some of our seed-saving tasks, with a nod of gratefulness to our past. And -- with a little prayer for our future, we peruse the seed catalogs and inventory our saved seed as we plan the garden beds. What does January bring to you?

Finally getting our tomato seed dried. This is Cherokee Purple-- a heritage variety. We also saved Red Zebras and SunGold this year. To save tomato seed, you need to let them set in their tomato goo for a bit-- a little ferment. Waiting until January was really too long to wait, but it worked out just fine!

Underlying

Defined:

implicit in(p): in the nature of something though not readily apparent

located beneath or below

fundamental: being or involving basic facts or principles

A bean, a seed, all filled with the potential of the world. Implicit in a seed is not only its potential  but also its pattern or path to completion. The seed does not have to think much about it, as far as we know, it just is, it just does. A little water, a little soil and . . . magic. A teacher, a guide. . . a seed is an example of the reaching toward entelechy, which, according to Aristotle, is the condition of something whose essence is fully realized; actuality. The garden offers so much to meditate on. If only I could quiet my mind!

We have been shelling the dry beans, Jacob's Cattle. This was probably one of those things to do in October, but no one has touched them since the last of our CouchSurfers passed through. Now my youngest daughter has been doing her chore time with a focus on getting this done. Still one grocery bag to go, and then on to the soybeans.

The continual craving for depth, insight to soul, and the desire to impact the positive is enough to drive one to a fevered, crazy edge. Particularly in the gray of January. Hope is sparse, moods are dull. . . The little empty pots are beckoning with longing. The soil warms. The air today smells of sap season, the roots stir. . . remembering.