Spring is a Frenchie

Annoying and adorable

No audio option this round but I’ll still start with my evergreen ask: If reading this brings up feelings of connection and you’d like to see writing like this persist, I hope you’ll make a point of liking (💚) and restacking (♻️) this post. I rely on your engagement to help new readers find me. My gratitude for your part in that knows no bounds!

It’s high spring, and my love-hate relationship with the season is in full bloom. If you’ve been part of Chicken Scratch for a while, or if we’ve been in each other’s orbits some other way, you know I’ve got the warm fuzzies for winter. But I’m not here for season ranking. The truth is, I have a complicated relationship with all four of them, each with qualities I adore and abhor. The thing about spring is that every damn year, even after decades of practice, its relentless pace manages to catch me off guard.

I’m not a farmer anymore, so the pressure to bring nourishment out of the soil has eased. My children—two remarkable women—no longer need me for daily care, and my husband gets along pretty well on his own, too, even though we sometimes pretend otherwise.

These days, along with writing and connecting here, I’m committed to my full-time, nonprofit work in sustainable farming and land conservation, to volunteer leadership with the local farmers market and community garden, and to maintaining my own growing spaces. Oh, and the thread that ties them all together—to eating delicious food.

Some of my responsibilities show up with the loyalty of a Great Dane: steady, strong, dependable. Spring tasks, on the other hand, crash in like a French Bulldog, snorting, spinning in circles, grabbing my full attention with their irresistible charm. Just the other day, one trotted into the kitchen with 20 pounds of cabbage, insisting we make sauerkraut. (Typically, this is a fall project, but for various reasons, we’re doing it now.)

Mingled with carrots, onions, garlic, ginger, turmeric, coriander, and salt (so much salt!), the cabbage is now crocked and burbling like a bard five pints deep. The house smells...ripe. We’re embracing the natural consequences of our culinary choices, and in the absence of an actual dog to blame, I’ll apologize in advance to any visitors.

From a previous season. The current batch won’t be ready for another month or so. I call it “Sunshine Kraut.”

Satisfied that the kraut has been managed, spring’s Frenchie now insists we head outside. She barrels into our gardens with the same chaotic energy, frolicking with us as we plant our seasonal abundance—both food and flowers.

There’s an intensity to these experiences that’s hard to describe, a magnetic attraction. Ignoring hunger and fatigue, I keep going, driven by something deeper. Between the tomatoes and the marigolds, I think back to Martha Beck’s Finding Your Own North Star, a book I read in my early 40s. She writes about how being so absorbed in a project as to lose track of time is a sign you’re in alignment with your passions, in sync with your inner compass.

She encourages readers to pay attention to these moments because they are strong clues from our essential selves the part of us that knows what we truly want and need. In contrast to the social self, which is conditioned by external expectations, the essential self is revealed in activities that ignite joy and natural engagement. One of Beck's strategies is to track these instances over time, using what she calls a “compass journal,” a way to notice patterns in what makes us feel most alive, even if they seem small or unrelated to our job or obligations.

For the last two hours of this particular spring sprint, I kick off my 20-year-old Crocs and work barefoot. My older body, more prone to discomfort these days, kept me awake the night before, despite my general exhaustion. Losing the shoes is Jim’s idea, a gentle nudge to return to what I already know. I believe in the power of grounding, or earthing, and wrote about it here. Still, I seem to slip in and out of the habit. That night, I sleep soundly and without pain.

All this to say, I appreciate you allowing me to take a little detour this week. The spirit I might have given over to a more typical essay went into the earth. In return, the Great Mother poured herself back into me. The irony? For all the times I feel uncertain, powerless, or limited, there amid the dirt and sweat of spring, I am sure of my purpose again.

So, what’s your North Star? What’s your version of a house that smells like vegetable flatulence? How and where do you find that electric connection with something? What brings you back to yourself when life gets loud?

So many points of light!

Next week, I look forward to offering the amazing story of our first boy kitty, a 14-pound bruiser of a feline, unless I get lost in the leaf mulch between now and then. Thanks for taking me as I am—soil on my toes, insect bites in constellations across my belly, and a heart that feels full.

~Elizabeth

p.s. Be sure to take in the song linked at the very end—Rhiannon Giddens: Following the North Star.

To make sure it’s accessible to everyone, Chicken Scratch essays are free. Still, there are those who offer paying subscriptions because they appreciate the work and want to acknowledge what it means to them. One time donations (think digital tip jar) are also a way to let me know I’m hitting the mark with what I’m offering. Special thanks to Nancy, Barry and Lyn for their recent support!

And thank you for choosing to spend some time here today. I hope you have a wonderful week!

Cover photo: Nico, by Rachel Beggins