I wait each winter for the unfurling of spring. The relentless heartiness of the crocus before it bursts through the ground, piercing the soil before unveiling its color in the sunshine and snow. Much the same one of the first tulips of spring brings me just as much joy.

I planted three bulbs in a small garden bed built by hand, a loving husband indeed, and these three bulbs planted over a decade ago have now brought forth thirty-two blooms this year. What a magical gift indeed. The little hashgacha pratit flowers are my divine providence from the earth itself. Staying winter, the fits of spring reveal themselves to us. There is something about a garden: no matter how grand or minuscule it may be, it is a gift of abundance with a mystery of life embedded underneath the soil.

As a child, I waited for the first buds on the Sitka rose bush to bloom. Once the snow melted, I checked them daily until they began to bud and bloom. They reminded me of staying the course in the darkest days. These plants are examples of change in our gardens, but their presence remains unyielding.

We must thank the gardeners of this planet, the tillers of the soil, the finders of renewable energy, and the ones who tend the gardens quietly and patiently, nurturing the blooms to bud.

My garden reflects my mental state. It is parched or overwatered, gently wedded and abundant in growth, and overgrown and ripe with fruits that spill from vines. Much like the ebb and flow of the seasons, I feel as they change and we continue to grow. What a blessing to be a witness and a tiller of the Earth.