Where there was a raised path, there now is a trench. When the ground was soft and green, the path seemed alright, but ice and rain show how the land lies. In this case, it lies low against the basement window. There are worse ways to learn than by getting things wrong.

It is nice to get your hands and feet in the ground in the ground again, no matter what the reason. I like to think about Antaeus, who compelled every stranger who passed to wrestle him and whose strength was renewed whenever he touched the earth. One character or another said that Dr. Zhivago was like Antaeus, but I can't remember who or if they were right. 

This week I clipped apple branches and brought them inside to see if they will blossom. I clipped black currant branches and stuck them in the ground to see if they will root. Uncertainty is a part of the deal and is part of what makes the garden good. Not all the ground was thawed enough for the black currant branches- plenty of patches were frozen just below the surface.

We'll be away for a week, and I hope when we get back the ground will be soft everywhere. Not for working, just for walking.

There are lots of good ways to live, and that's a nice thing. In warm places, winter is pleasant because everyone is still outside, there are greens in the garden, and there's heat to the sun. But I love winter here, too.

One of the best things about a cold-place winter is that it ends. The melting has started, here, and everyday I've been stomping around my yard seeing what's there. Last fall, I overwintered the kale by laying it flat and covering with oak leaves- it seems to be doing fine. The parsley under leaves seems pretty happy, too, but I'm not sure if that's because this variety (einfache schnitt 3) is hardier than the one I've grown before or because this was a milder winter. I'd rather think it was the good seeds.

Last year I overwintered four fig plants. This year I overwintered two. They're still dormant, and nights are warm enough to keep them outside. I brought them out two days ago, and the rabbits have already taken their share, but I'm feeling optimistic about the figs. It's easy to be optimistic when something's just beginning. I wish I had kept all four. Right now, it seems like there's room for everything.

The pomegranates aren't dormant. They started sprouting in the basement and are growing pretty happily, now, in a sunny window. They looked so ugly when they arrived in last fall, I didn't think they'd amount to anything; they had hardly any roots and were ready to give up for the year. They've surprised me. I've been surprised a lot this year, and that's something I'm grateful for.

Last year, I planted lots of flowers and grasses. I can't remember what. Some of it's written in a notebook, but most of it wasn't. I don't know what any of it will look like, and some things are probably all wrong (did really I plant senna hebecarpa in the front yard?) All the better.

All the better.

In one of his lectures, Roy Diblik asks how many plants we know that don't act like themselves. The answer is none, and I, acting like myself, cut my finger pruning the quince tree. I was using a saw when I should have used the pruners. I'm not sure I'll ever learn, and I don't really mind.

Seed-starting is a nice February chore, but pruning fruit trees is a delight. Each tree has its own way of growing, and each branch you take off is a suggestion. You respond to the tree, and the tree responds to you. No one talks enough about response. It's the thing that matters- everywhere, always.

The trees I don't prune this time of year are the mulberries and the peaches. Local advice is to prune peaches in late winter, but peaches tend not to live long here. Pruning peaches in spring, like they do in many places, seems more suited to their fast-growing, tender nature. Anyway, that's what I'm doing. I may be wrong.

I heard someone describe a newly pruned olive tree as looking like a bride. I don't know what that means, but I like looking at my trees* as they are now, ready for what comes next. And I like looking at the peach tree, too. It's rosy, limber, and fuzzy-budded: just what you'd think a peach tree should be. Even in February

*Except the quince tree- my pruning job there was a bit of a mess

January is sun season, and it's also seed season. My skill at seed starting has been spotty at best, mostly because I resist instructions and gadgets. Everyone says pepper seeds need heating pads, and after several years of thinking this didn't apply to me, I finally invested in one. The peppers grew beautifully.

This winter, I was introduced to Akira Miyawaki's work, and seeds have been on my mind ever since. I planted bur acorns in pots, but the squirrels got to them; my plans for growing an oak forest are deferred. Some of the compass plants in the prairie still have seeds, though, and they live almost as long as oaks. I brought some home, scattered a portion on the soil, refrigerated others in a wet coffee filter, and put the rest in a milk jug outside with potting soil. We'll see what happens. The invitation of seeds is to be curious and playful: a seed is free and a seed is unique, just like the rest of us.

The other seeds I'm giving a similar treatment are ones I bought: shooting stars and euphorbia, and some river oats for my parent's hillside. The milk jug trick has never worked for me with natives, but I'm trying again anyway. Like Pessoa says, in all the world, everything is worthwhile. The shooting stars seem especially unlikely to amount to anything- they're slow growers that take several years to flower. But why not try? I've never seen a baby shooting star. 

It's been a cold start to the year without much good snow to play in; my focus has been indoors. The fires have been warm, the work has been interesting, and I learned to roast potatoes in the wood stove. For a while now, some seeds have been sitting on my dresser that I meant to snow-sow where the juniper had been- every day's had a reason to hold off until tomorrow. I finally got out to scatter them this morning. It was cold and very bright, and once I started winter garden work, I found myself re-engaged with my frozen yard and ready to do a hundred other little things.

​I used the word "work" about the winter garden, but of course, the interesting thing about the garden in January is that it is has nothing to do with work. It's mostly about observation and enjoying sun as the days get longer. I wandered around looking at the shapes of things and contemplating different ways to prune my fruit trees. The opal plum I planted two years ago has little spurs, now, but the schoolhouse plum next to it looks youthful and uninterested in flowering.

​Winter gives the impression of sameness, but there is always a surprise behind one door or another. There were deer tracks in our yard (we rarely get deer) and when I pruned some branches off the hemlock, I found the rings inside beautiful- rosy and dark. There's a new path, now, from the backdoor to the sidewalk. The hemlock above it has thousand of little cones cones, too small to call attention from a distance.

It's cold out, now. In the morning, in the dark, I scrape the frost off my windshield. The dark-eyed juncos have arrived. The oak leaves have half fallen. Today I got the first 2022 seed catalogues in the mail. I meant to read them in the bath but got them too wet to turn the pages.

All that to say it's nearly winter. But the peach leaves still are beautiful. No one tells you when you buy a peach tree how bright they are in fall and how in summer, when you break the leaves, they smell like almonds.

Another thing no one tells you: potatoes can be planted in autumn. Or so I hear- this will be my first year trying. I was disappointed with the yields from my little la ratte potatoes, but then M told me she loved them, that she could eat the little potatoes by the bowlful all day. So I planted a long row in her corner of the garden. All the very best.

The fall spinach and favas never came up. Sometimes that happens. You try something, and nothing comes of it. And so what do you do? Look at the bare soil? Maybe for a bit. Then look at something else.

The quince tree I planted a few years ago bore for the first time- three big fruits with fuzzy skin. They're on the sill in the dining room, and you can pick them up one by one and put your nose to them. The scent is a joy, and they've also been a joy to see, from papery blossom to big yellow knobs. The trees are small and lovely, so I ordered a second one to put in next spring- a Turkish variety called Ekmek. Maybe something will come of it.

The weather has turned cool and wet. I'm indoors more, but there's plenty of parsley, beets, radishes, and sugarloaf chicory out there. Sugarloaf chicory sounds sweet, but chicory is chicory. There's a reason most people don't grow it. Maybe as the weather turns colder, the leaves will grow milder and my tastes will turn toward the bitter. We'll have to wait and see.

It's been a warm October. The oaks are all still bright green. Today was warm enough to lay in the garden and read, but I miss all the birds and insects that were here in summer. After reading, I  harvested some beets and winter radishes. The radishes are spicier than I thought they'd be; my intention for them is the fermentation jar. But I intend a lot of things. There are two cabbages on my counter that have been waiting a week to be turned into kraut, a roasted pumpkin in my fridge that I intended to puree. I only have so much to give every day, and that's enough.

The twig-like Illinois Everbearing mulberry now a small tree with big leaves. Under one of them, I found this pumpkin that climbed the fence. Gardens are full of surprises. I was in a very feral and loved unmown yard last week and almost stepped on a gorgeous crop of chanterelle mushrooms. Good things happen whether we demand them to or not.

In the vegetable garden, I'm experimenting with overwintering fava beans. Success seems unlikely- favas aren't known for extreme winter hardiness, and I never have much luck germinating fall crops. But it's always rewarding to learn more about plants I love, and I do love fava plants. The little beans called Sweet Lorane are supposed to be hardy down to 0 degrees. Maybe with a thick blanket of leaves and a mild winter, they'll do alright? Right now I'm just waiting for them to sprout. That could be enough for me: those strong matte-green leaves

Watering may be part of my problem with fall crops. I'm trying to do better. Yesterday I almost forgot my favas, but I watered at dusk when the tobacco was starting to blow its scent around. I'm told that smell is supposed to attract night insects, but the moths I saw were all on the zinnias. Why the zinnias? I'd like to learn more about moths, but we keep different hours. In Wildwood, Roger Deakin writes about a night with the Essex Moth Group, who attract the insect using a mercury lamp and egg cartons. He says no one knows why they are attracted to light- maybe moths are oriented by the moon and stars?

Right now I'm reading a book about ravens. On nice days, I often like to read on the bench in the vegetable garden, but today I hurt my back, so I laid down on the mulch beside it instead. My head was half in the leek and kale bed- one of the less sweet-smelling parts of the garden- but it was still a nice place to read. A friend today said it feels good to be dirty because it makes you feel like you can do things. I know what he means.

This summer, the mulberry tree was growing into the garden fence, so I tied a weighted string around its trunk to bend it. The trunk has already swallowed up the string, but it kept that interesting arc. We'll see which direction it goes next year. Some of us grow fast, some grow slow.