It is a day of transition, where the lingering quiet of winter meets the urgent tug of the coming season. Outside, the air remains a chilly 7°C, and the sky wears a heavy, gloomy gray. Yet, inside, the biological clock of the garden is already ticking.

Today was about commitment—the act of moving life from the safety of water and glass into the dark, waiting soil.

The Quiet Success of the Windowsill

While the outdoor landscape hesitates, the indoor garden is thriving. There is a deep, quiet satisfaction in seeing a ZZ plant push out a new, waxy leaf, or watching the black sedum cuttings—tended since November—finally find their strength.

Transplanting the sweet potato slips and the dahlia tubers is more than just a chore; it is a bridge. Some of these tubers have been part of the garden for years, while others were simple grocery store finds or new investments like the red pokers. To see them all settled into their pots, alongside the winter sowing of Monarda and Butterfly weeds, brings a sense of order to the chaos of early spring. It is a “Whew!” moment—the kind of exhaustion that feels like a deposit in a bank of future beauty.

Finding the Melody in Simplicity

When the weather refuses to cooperate, the piano offers a different kind of growth. Lately, I’ve found myself drawn back to the basics, working through simplified arrangements of classics and popular themes.

There is a temptation to always push for the next level, to reach for the more complex books sitting on the shelf. But today was a reminder that joy doesn’t require difficulty. As long as the music resonates in the room, the simplicity of the arrangement doesn’t matter. It was a morning spent playing for the sheer sake of the sound, letting the notes fill the space that the sun couldn’t reach.

The High Price of a Long Winter

The most profound lesson of the day, however, waited in the garden beds. After five months of heavy snow—a white blanket that only began to recede two weeks ago—the true cost of the winter was revealed.

Seeing the shrubs neatly chopped off, even the thick and tall branches, was a sharp sting. It is easy to feel a flash of anger when your hard work is dismantled by the wild. But the realization that the snow had piled high enough to give rabbits a “ladder” to reach those branches changed the perspective.

We often talk about the garden as “ours,” but we share this space with living beings who had to survive a brutal season from November to March. To them, those branches weren’t a landscape design; they were a lifeline.

Between Frustration and Empathy

I find myself in that familiar space between love and hate for the wild things. It is upsetting to lose the growth of a season, but it is humbling to realize that my garden helped a fellow creature see the spring.

Life often requires us to deal with things we didn’t choose—the weather, the damage, the unexpected “pruning.” Choosing to see the rabbit’s hunger as a natural part of the cycle doesn’t fix the shrubs, but it does settle the heart. We grow what we can, we protect what we are able, and we share the rest. It is simply the price of belonging to the earth.

Young Mee, on March 25,2026 3pm, +7 degrees