It was the vernal equinox yesterday, and the day was warm here, summer-like. The grass grew greener throughout the day, and we watched the first daffodil lift its drooping head and open its vibrant petals to the sun. Children’s book author and illustrator Tasha Tudor wrote that there is stardust on daffodil petals - and there is, if you look closely. The chickens’ combs flashed crimson as they scratched in the mulch, quietly gossiping with one another. The goats lay lazily in the sun, Tru the donkey took a dust bath. There was a moment of excitement when we realized Leonard was not barking at a sparrow or far-off hawk, but had chased a mink up a tree. We had a mink visit at exactly this time last year, which reminds us that the chicken coop probably needs some attention.

In the morning, we stood outside the window at my Grandma’s care facility with a sign, smiling and waving. I talked to her on the phone and we watched Nettie run and leap over puddles on the sidewalk. She asked how long I thought this would last and I said I didn’t know. As we were leaving, I told her the daffodils would be blooming soon, and we would bring her some soon.

Dave, who is home from school, worked in the new garden for my cut flowers, just south of the house. There will be raised beds and pebble paths and a fence to keep out the kitties and hens, and gates made of twigs, though the carpenter shakes his head at this fancy.

On Monday, Nettie and I started kale seeds, and spinach and swiss chard. We will plant potatoes this weekend and look for onion sets. We hadn’t intended a large vegetable garden this year, but it seems the thing to do. I am thankful for the twenty pounds of flour I have left in the basement, and that I finally managed to learn to make sourdough bread last winter. I take comfort in our shelves of canned tomatoes and applesauce and peaches, which seemed last fall like a token - more a tradition or hobby - and now, seem necessary, even valuable.

I think of Tasha Tudor, stubbornly refusing to concede to modern conveniences - wearing her handmade clothes, milking her own goats, tending her gardens, living without electricity and a car, as time spun faster and faster around her. Maybe it wasn’t stubbornness or romance or old-fashionedness - but rather an instinct not to rely too heavily on those things you can’t produce for yourself.

It was always our intention to make a life here that was more conscious, more connected to Nature - and it seems now, that perhaps we’re all being pushed in that direction whether we choose it or not. The reality is that no matter how mechanized and monetized and digitized humans become, we’re still animals - and we are absolutely vulnerable to Nature. We found the daffodil frozen this morning, but I know in a few more days the others will raise their heads, stardust glinting in the sunlight.