A spring Sunday bordering on summer. The butterflies that were completely absent throughout last year have for some reason chosen early March to make an appearance. And why not, it is after all unseasonally mild after this non-winter. 

There is a rambling sweet pea flowering and I want to say, you are an annual, I planted you out last May, what are you still doing here?

We are still at the kale harvesting stage. Mentally.

But what the heck, we can play this game too, let's pretend it's April and put out the seedlings.

In brightest sunshine, we said good bye to the Douglas fir.

And hello to the new red chestnut.

And in memory of my more rebellous past I manufactured 50 little seed bombs ready to be distributed around the duller parts of town on a rainy and dark night.

While the amaryllis is trying her best to call us back indoors.

Earlier in the day, there were long calls between countries and continents. One of the family has died after a long illness. Someone else's mother, a cousin, an aunt, a friend. There was sadness and relief and the need to talk with the ones we love. And since then, my heart has been whispering to me. I miss my child.