Seeds Beneath the Frost
March feels like mud and thaw and false starts. There is an ache of wanting visible change at this point in the year. We are experiencing snow fatigue, and there is a temptation to rush spring. We have a few days of fifty-degree weather (for my international friends, that’s ten degrees), and we feel like it’s going to stay that way.
In my previous life as a stagehand, we had a name for this. We called it “getting Farched”. It’s the month between February and March. That strange and liminal time when it could be spring in the morning, then winter by noon. If you have never experienced the rapid weather shifts Ohio offers, please take my word for it: this is normal.
Having experienced “getting Farched” at least twice a year, I’m always cautious when our first thaw happens. Ohio could spit snow at us at any moment. The disappointment of gray days and more snow after the hope flares from feeling the warm weather and finding the ice on the streets and the sidewalks melt can be overwhelming this time of year.
But it’s more than just the weather that can “Farch” us. Our emotions get “Farched” just as much during this time, and it can feel exhausting. I find myself trapped in an emotional limbo that can shift from elation and excitement to crestfallen emptiness as quickly as the Ohio weather.
What looks like rest is often preparation. The roots are moving outward in darkness, just like we are. I know for my part, I have spent more time in the dark under a blanket, feeling like a lump. What’s really been happening is my preparation for the spring to come. Energy is being spent even when nothing shows for it.
March is about allowing. You don’t have to name outcomes. There’s creative work that needs to settle, without demanding attention. I had been furiously working on Victory, only to find myself running out of steam lately. There are nights I don’t even open the document. It’s not from lack of love, it’s from lack of motivation. Feeling the waffling of the weather, the up and down of the temperature, and the overall vibe of “getting Farched” at any second, I just find myself not in the mood.
This is the quiet shift in my emotional life, and it’s happening just as the season is turning. I’m trying to trust it. But trust in something unclear is hard to come by for a woman who has been promised so much and left wondering why those promises weren’t kept. My heart is as tired as the rest of me, and “Farch” has barely begun.
Sometimes, the night calls for Taylor Swift on repeat and Ghost Adventures on the TV. Sometimes it calls for Abbi cuddles and no technology. But sometimes, Sigyn’s still small voice calls for attention, and I find myself lost once again in her world, immersed in this place that I have created and I nurture. Watching the seeds of that novel break open and begin to take root in the fertile soil.
March asks us for a bit more patience as the last of the winter rattles in the atmosphere. The seeds do not ask us to witness them. They just grow on their own. The roots deepen all by themselves, without being seen. So I am working on nurturing plans, rather than announcing them. I’m working on growing silently. I want my blossoms to be appreciated for what they are, not for the Facebook post about them.
Oh, but how impatient I am for some relief in the weather. I’m tired of slipping on the ice in my driveway. I’m tired of trudging through the snow with my dog in the backyard. I’m exhausted by the icicles hanging off my roof. If I were planting real seeds in the garden, I’d check them every few hours for signs of growth.
So I tell myself, what’s meant to grow will do so without needing assistance, and it already knows how to unfurl and break through the surface. Not everything planted will bloom. But some things will. And some things already have.
