I had a dreadful January. I still can’t put my finger on quite why, I just know that I felt ungrounded, jittery and, paradoxically, absolutely exhausted. Every evening, I checked the clock because it felt like bedtime, and was astonished to find it was only half past seven. Some nights I fought it and sat up in the darkness, even the fire not quite warming my bones. Some nights, I just went to bed and the girls proved my theory that they can sleep for twelve hours straight and not tire of rest.

As February dawns, I am soothed by a wide blue sky. The days still feel chillier than they should, but I am reassured by flashes of warmth on my skin. There is a time in the turn of the seasons where it is warmer outside than in as the thickness of my ancient cottage walls are slow to let go of the winter. The warmth soothes and yet stirs me, and I feel something awakening in my soul. 

An awakening. A stirring. Imbolc means ‘in the belly of the earth’. It marks the start of the lambing season but also the start of a deeper bringing forth of life. In the seeds buried in the soil, there is movement, not yet visible, for the surface of the soil remains dark and cold. But deeper than the surface, something is awakening. 

Or at least, I like to think so. I want to hope so. I need to believe so. Because turning one’s head slightly and looking at the year through the Christian calendar, we are at Candlemas. Half way through winter. 

Half way. How utterly depressing. 

Yet looking back over the last few years, I know that we are only just starting on the climb up the hill out of the cold weather, that there is a road yet to go. We have had big snowfalls in March here and once in April. The things that are stirring now are either the hardy, the courageous, or the foolish. Hellebores that flop to the ground when frozen and spring back to life when to sun touches their stems. 

And when the sun is out, I can forget this. There is a pot in the courtyard containing a calendula with courage. I look out of the kitchen window as I drink my tea and every morning it opens and every evening it closes. The light glints off the edges giving it a luminous quality. When the sun is out, the dogs run through the grass in the orchard. When the sun is out, my spirits soar. 

All this talk of stirring and awakening, you may be tempted to sow seeds. Stop. Resist the urge. The weather is fickle and there are cold nights to come. You know the one you can?

Sweet peas. 

Today (3 February) is a biodynamic flower day and I am, to the despair of my husband, filling the kitchen with pots, compost, cardboard tubes and labels. And that’s before I bring in the hundreds of precious little envelopes. Each printed with the name of hope, the name of beauty. Juliet, the romantic one. Dusty Springfield, the wild one. Indigo King, the harbinger of regal purple. Piggy Sue, a name so loved and familiar it could be of my best friend. Bristol. Cream Eggs. April in Paris. 

Erewhon, the name that everyone recognises but no one quite knows how to pronounce. 

It is just for a few days, I say. Just until they are sprouted. Warm and dark for germination, and then straight out into the cold greenhouse for strong, stocky growth. The fact that these seeds were started in the heart of my home makes me feel even more invested in them. I give them everything they need and, when the time comes, they give and give and give back in blooms.