chapter three: the hidden fields
where color dreams.
Empty flower field rows at dusk, prepared for winter planting
promise
Winter has its own language here. I first noticed it settling into the Cottage in The Winter’s Hush. The fields now look empty if you don’t know how to read them.
Rows carved into the earth, soil turned and resting again, nothing left on the surface to admire. Most of the work now disappears as soon as it’s done. What remains visible is restraint.
What lies beneath carries a quiet promise.
I move with intention across the beds, pressing each bulb into the ground like a ritual practiced over time. Tulips. Daffodils. Ranunculus. Each slips underground holding more color than the field can yet show. Petals folded inward. Stems imagined but not yet unfolded. This is work done without witnesses, without guarantees, without applause.
The field does not ask to be admired. It asks to be trusted.
flower bulbs and labels at the edge of a winter garden bed
trust
Along the edges, winter hasn’t stopped everything. Sweet peas and yarrow have already taken hold, their green tendrils testing the air. Foxglove and delphinium sit low and patient, holding their rosettes close to the soil. This is one of the quiet advantages of this place. Growth continues, even when it is unseen. I tend what I can and what I cannot with the same persistent hand.
sweet pea vines winding through a garden tunnel
Here, the seasons overlap. Past planning meets future bloom. The work of summer lingers beneath winter’s cover, and spring waits just beyond reach — promising a palette designed months ago when the heat was heavy and the cicadas still loud. I walk between them all; muddy at the knees, fingers frozen from the cold. I step in scat. Again.
This is not delicate work.
It is repetitive, physical, sometimes unforgiving. Knees sink. Back aches. Hands cramp. The earth demands labor before it yields reward. Still, I move deliberately. Preparation matters. Timing decides. The field nurtures what’s placed into it. Each choice becomes a promise of what will return, whether quickly or after long waiting.
pause
I will not see most of this for a while. Some of it will rise early, eager and brief. Other crops will take their time, waiting for the light to change entirely before awakening. A few will sleep through the season before making themselves known at all.
That patience is part of the design.
The hidden field is not barren. It is full. Heavy with foreshadowing of the coming seasons. Every bed holds a future already agreed upon between seed, soil, and time. I leave no markers beyond my own memory. The field knows what it’s holding. That is enough.
The work will continue without me now. I’ll return when the Cottage has something new to show me.
until we meet again – the keeper
Keepsakes that accompany The Written Pages are gathered here. Specially curated for the moment at hand.
