I've just tucked a seedling or two into each of the homely newspaper pots on my front porch. Stepping backwards and ardently sniffing their aromatic cargo of potting soil and vermiculite, I survey the three trays of uneven and patently homemade pots.
Am I satisfied? Not yet. Expectant and optimistic I most certainly am, but I will not be able to make true peace with this day's light labor until I see green.
Until then, I'll drink it. Reaching for my mug of green tea, I intend to make a solitary toast to the seedlings in their newsprint houses...but catch myself in time. While I worked I must have accidentally shaken some vermiculite into the cup: flecks of it swirl against the porcelain edges.
Instead of a toast, then, a libation! I unlatch the front door, glance over my shoulder significantly, and douse the threshold of my home with a mugful of lukewarm vermiculite tea. It's a grander gesture anyway, and one that seems to encompass not merely the humble potential of those inhabited pots, but also the many broader, deeper, less tangible potentials that the home itself holds.
Janie doesn't bother getting to her feet as she witnesses this odd ritual, but she pays homage to my little ceremony with a few lazy sweeps of her tail across the carpet.
And it is spring.
