The 2026 growing season has finally begun.
So much about farming—about growing flowers—is really an exercise in waiting. Waiting for the days to stretch a little longer, for the soil to slowly warm beneath the surface, for the first quiet signs of life to push their way up. Waiting for seedlings to emerge, for stems to strengthen, for blooms to open, and eventually, for flowers to dry.
Even in all this waiting, though, there are small, steady signs that things are shifting. Late March on the farm is subtle, but full of quiet hope. The birds have started to return, their songs breaking through the stillness of early mornings. The red-winged blackbirds are back, their familiar calls echoing across the fields. Our backyard chipmunk has reappeared too, waiting patiently by the kitchen door for peanuts, as if no time has passed since October.
Because our growing season in Toronto is short, many of the staple varieties I grow for drying need a long, warm growing season. This week, I’ve begun sowing seeds indoors. Right now, they’re under blue light to encourage strong vegetative growth.
Strawflower, statice, globe thistle, amaranth, and billy buttons are all started and underway. I’ll tend to them carefully over the next couple of months, watching for those first true leaves, watering, rotating, adjusting—until they’re ready to be transplanted outdoors in late May. Others, like bachelor buttons and feverfew, will be direct sown outdoors when the soil is ready.
While I’m always drawn to native plants, many of my favourite drying varieties come from elsewhere—strawflower from Australia, statice from the Mediterranean. To balance this, I have a large border garden of native perennials like coneflower and black-eyed Susan, planted for the local pollinators that return alongside the warmer days.
I’m not spending long hours in the garden just yet, but there are still so many ways to be outside and to notice the season changing. Slow walks around the property, watching as the snow melts back into the earth. Noticing something new each morning—a patch of green, a new sound, a shift in the air. And I adore toddling through the yard with my two year old son as he rediscovers pinecones, puddles, and the simple joy of digging in the dirt.
Alongside the seed trays and early signs of growth, this spring is bringing its own kind of new beginnings. We’ve ordered chicks, soon to arrive and settle into their place on the farm. And even closer to home, we’re waiting on the arrival of our second baby—due any day now.
A season of waiting, in more ways than one. And a quiet beginning to everything that’s to come.
