I am writing this to the sound of rain on the tin roof, and thinking of the seeds in the garden, the morels in the forest all waking up and doing their wondrous thing out there in the wet dirt. There is still more to plant, and endless lists of things to accomplish out there, but I am feeling thankful for what has been done (with so much help from Nana and Grandpa,) and pretty relaxed about what doesn't get done.
These are the years, I figure, where we toss in some seeds and don't stress too much about the weeds or the overgrown flower beds. Our other land mates are meticulous gardeners, and we call ours "the slum" for all its plant pots and toys and chickweed. But somehow, we are still eating last years potatoes and garlic and spinach and rhubarb and beets. Our food grows despite our neglect, and seems not to care about the long lists of things that never get done.
I like to think the plants are happy to grow here in our good dirt, knowing how we enjoy being out there with them. I imagine them soaking in the rain from the mountains, our good thoughts as we all dig and work in the spring sun, the coos of the happy baby as he pulls himself up for the first time on a raised bed, the songs of our three year old who spends long hours playing and singing in their midst.
This here is a good place to grow.
I love my garden. I do. But nothing makes me happier than wandering into the forest and collecting my supper. I feel grateful for every nettle leaf, every precious mushroom. I pick them with a mindfulness I often forget to conger in the garden, and that is even more rare when I'm piling produce into my shopping cart. But here in the woods my heart is filled with thanks to the plants and the woods and all of this great creation.
Each morel, cool and alive in my hand, is something to be cherished. I hold them out with glee to show my family, call excitedly when another one is found. Back home I lay out the mushrooms carefully to admire how strange and unique they each are.
I cook them simply (butter and garlic for the morels, a simple soup for the nettles,) and they become a feast. We eat them with gratitude and appreciation, exclaiming over the incredible flavours. After this glorious dinner, the preschooler wakes from sleep crying for more mushrooms. We understand. We cook the last ones up in the middle of the night and feed him at a table lit up by candlelight, our forest bounty served up like something holy.
side of the property workshop
sweet baby nursing at the lake
Ah green. How welcome you are. How our little northern hearts lift at the the sight of you. How fresh and new and precious you are.
new shoots at the lake
grass and garlic greens at our friend's farm
spring 
Baking together. Using up cranberries from the freezer, and the dates we bought too many of. Morning sunlight through the window, PJ's dusted with flour, baby playing with sunbeams. Sharing sweet treats together.
A pick-out-your-own-toy-at-the-toy-store gift from Baba. He flies everywhere. Wind in his propellers, wind in his hair, gleeful.
Working our way through the last of our freezer food- carrot soup, cherry jam pear sauce, zucchini. 
Knitting - in my favorite patch of sunlight at the top of the stairs after both the babes are asleep,
Playing with friends, 
Playing outside and relishing the warmth that has finally arrived.
