Read by Matilda Longbottom

February has a way of lingering, gray and unhurried, as though Winter itself is reluctant to loosen its grip. The snowbanks along the driveway are crusted and weary, the sky seems permanently softened by clouds, and the garden rests under a blanket of cold that feels both protective and endless. This is the month of the February doldrums, when Spring feels less like a coming season and more like a distant memory we’re not entirely sure it wasn’t a dream.

And yet, somehow, this is when my garden becomes the most vivid place I know.

It usually starts in the quiet moments. I’ll be rinsing a mug at the kitchen sink or folding laundry by the window, glancing out at the frozen beds. On the surface, everything looks still, even lifeless. But in my mind, those beds are already awake. I begin rearranging them without realizing it. The tomatoes shift to a sunnier corner. The basil gets its own little patch, closer to the door this time, so I won’t forget to snip it on Summer evenings. I promise myself, again, that I’ll plant fewer zucchini, then immediately imagine the satisfaction of giving extras away.

In the evenings, when February darkness settles in early, I pull out seed catalogs and dog-eared notebooks. The pages are smudged with soil from years past, margins crowded with hopeful notes and gentle reminders to myself. Try again. Loved this. Too much. Planning feels less like work and more like comfort, a quiet ritual that pushes back against the heaviness of Winter. With a cup of tea warming my hands, I sketch garden beds that are still locked under frost, drawing tidy rows and generous paths. On paper, everything behaves beautifully. The peas climb politely. The lettuce grows lush and unbothered. There are no surprise frosts, no hungry insects, no frantic July afternoons wondering what I was thinking.

Sometimes I pause and smile at myself, fully aware that I am negotiating with a garden that doesn’t yet exist. But that, I think, is part of the magic. February invites dreaming without consequence. It allows hope to stretch its legs.

There’s something deeply reassuring about planning when nothing can yet go wrong. Each imagined seed becomes a small act of faith. Each penciled note is a reminder that this cold, quiet pause is not an ending, but a necessary gathering of strength. Beneath the frozen soil, life is already organizing itself, following patterns older and wiser than my own plans.

As the days inch longer, almost imperceptibly, the light begins to change. It slants just a bit differently through the windows. The afternoons linger. And without fanfare, I realize that the doldrums have done exactly what they were meant to do. They slowed me down. They made space for reflection and anticipation. They reminded me why I love this cycle so much.

Spring will arrive soon enough, muddy and chaotic and full of surprises. But for now, February gives me the gentle gift of imagining everything that could grow, in the garden and in myself. ❖