There's is still lots snow on the ground. Not the romantic first snowfall of December, but that tired, granular kind — tucked into the fence lines, piled along the laneway, crusted over in the places where the sun doesn’t quite reach. The fields are quiet. The garden beds are hidden. If you didn’t know better, you’d think nothing was stirring.
But inside, everything is beginning.
My seeds arrived this week from Circle Farms, and I can’t quite explain the kind of joy that small brown box brings in the middle of winter. It feels like a promise. Like a whisper: it’s almost time.
I spread the seed packets out across the table the way some people might lay out treasure. Strawflower. Statice. Globe thistle. Feverfew. Rows of tiny futures, each one holding an entire season inside.
There’s something deeply grounding about seed starting season. While the world outside still feels dormant, I get to begin again. In the coming weeks, I’ll be filling trays with soil, pressing tiny seeds into place, misting gently, and sliding them under grow lights. My little indoor nursery will glow in the early mornings while frost still clings to the windows.
Strawflower always feels like magic to me — papery, everlasting blooms that look almost too perfect to be real. Statice, in all her soft purples and creams, dries so beautifully she feels like she was made for memory-keeping. And globe thistle — bold, architectural, a little wild — brings that structure I love in dried arrangements.
Starting these seeds now is an act of trust. Trust that the light will return. Trust that the snow will melt. Trust that what looks like nothing happening outside is actually the land resting, gathering itself.
There’s a quiet rhythm to this season of farming. Winter isn’t empty — it’s preparation. It’s planning rows on paper. It’s labeling trays carefully. It’s checking soil moisture with cold fingers. It’s dreaming in color while everything outside is white.
Soon enough, the snowbanks will shrink. The barn swallows will return. The soil will soften beneath my boots. But for now, I’m content with this in-between space — one foot still in winter, the other stepping gently into spring.
The seeds have arrived.
And that means the growing season has already begun.
