From Monday, February 6. A nearly full moon, already, again. I can't quite recall what I was doing during the last full moon-- I guess it was just after the new year, just as I was beginning again. This evening she came up bursting and wailing, a beacon in an already shimmering landscape. We've seen so much sun this winter. It doesn't feel like winter, really, except the chill. Frost laces each morning, diamonds sparkling my path to the farm, and as I turn the bend around Hendrick's Park--that shadow looming resolutely across the Laurel Valley-- the sunrise is fuller, more golden and promising, day by day. The light is returning! Just today I seeded half of our onion crop for the year, ever so gingerly tucking dozens of deep black seed-cups under our home-made potting mix. Eight parts soil, four parts compost, four parts sand and vermiculite, and a couple cups of fish meal, lime, and kelp. I keep finding critters in it. I hope they aren't onion seed-eating critters. Such momentous occasions as seeding a whole year's crop on one little table happen so often in my life there that I fail to celebrate them, usually. What to do at the first spotting of crocus shoots under a dim eave in the drizzle of January? How can one possibly commemorate such a joyous act of courage? To trust-- to know-- that her leaves will grow fully and be cradled by broadening days and milder nights, even in the midst of frosts and torrential storms-- that she is exactly as she should be... Who taught the crocus such bravery and poise? Perhaps the moon, murmuring silver wisps of support into the ground below our feet. Perhaps the frost is just an echo.