Dormant

Grovely woods in February

Dormant is not dead. It is a promise, like a seed holding the promise of a flower. In the depths of winter the garden may seem lifeless, with so much bare earth, so many empty branches. Yet concealed below the surface life awaits. Roots, seeds, bulbs, rhizomes and mycelium lie hidden. Only the gardener knows what's there. For everyone else it becomes a journey of discovery, and in a few short months it will be flourishing and full of life.

There are dormant places within all of us. Dreams we have, hopes and longings. If you find one of those seeds in your heart, you'll know it by the flicker of joy it stirs when you imagine it waking. Being dormant is about waiting for the right timing.

As a gardener I have learned that coaxing a seed to grow out of season leads to disappointment. No matter how much care I give it, it struggles to thrive because the conditions simply aren't there to sustain it. Nature has taught me this gentle truth: timing matters. It gives me hope, because instead of being ashamed of my barren spaces, I can honour them, trusting that my dormant seeds know their seasons, and flourishing will come when the time is right.

This month, as I walk through the wild spaces around me, I am searching for signs of new life. I can see it coming. On the days when the sun is shining the air is filled with birdsong and the early snowdrops are up. Even the rosemary cuttings that have sat patiently on my windowsill all winter are now finally sprouting their first roots. 

I remind myself that dormant is a promise.