There is more daylight.
How is it that more daylight translates into needing more time?
There’s more to do. Not only in my own flat expanse of garden waking up and begging for the cut back of blanched winter brownery, but every garden I take care of is crying for the same. Some clients are calling, anxious to get things going. Others worry me with mysterious hesitance. The one I’ve worked with the longest just says, “Good. You’re here. Now, it’s really Spring.”
More to do translates into many more mores: More to schedule, more to keep track of, more to potentially space out, more activity than my body’s been used to, more need to plan meals, more income, more temptation to hurl by thought into an imagined future, more opportunity to stay present.
Every one of those mores translates into still more mores. More activity than my body’s been used to (specifically raking debris off the lawn) gave me the first muscle spasm in my lower back since seven years ago. This meant more visits to the massage therapist, angel of the strong hands. It continues to mean more stretching. Stand up from the work and use the rake to open my arms and chest. Get up earlier and stretch before the day.
It’s a runaway train, a crisis by ancient definition.
In the Foote garden, at last, more tips of spring bulbs poke through the mulch. While only one clutch of Cream Beauty crocus is in bloom, there are more open than last week, and the bees have miraculously found them. So has Willie. An amazing feat, considering how small and pale is that huddle of blossoms the color of newly hatched chicks.
Truth be told, the garden on the whole looks barren. Here, the heart cries for more: More spring bulbs, more dark and swelling twigs, more evergreens, more stuff. Oh, the heart is a gay and greedy thing. She’s heedless of the money such more requires. Nonetheless, I placate her with agreement. More would be lovely. All in time, more time.
In all the rush of more, I’m happy that on the day I tweaked my back, I discovered something less. The spring cleaning of 900+ square feet of parking median – which last year took many wheel barrows full and at least four days to empty of weeds, trash, and over growth – will be done in less than 4 hours.
This triumph lends balance to my thoughts of more: Sometimes progress is measured by less.
I remind myself with a deep breath: It’s only March, and the day after Willie’s 15th birthday. That’s 105 in people years. He didn’t rush to get here. Just woke up and stretched day by day.