03/19/2025
March Farm Journal 2025
March always feels like standing on the edge of something — one foot in the sleepy quiet of winter and the other stepping into the soft, unfolding arms of spring. Out here at our South Georgia farm, under the shade of these old pines, that feeling is everywhere. You can hear it in the song of the birds waking up the world a little earlier each morning, and you can feel it in the way the afternoon sun lingers just a bit longer on the brick walls of this farmhouse, built back in the 70s. These walls have seen their fair share of seasons, but every spring feels like the first — fresh, hopeful, and a little bit daunting.
In the flower field, the sweet peas are already reaching skyward, their delicate tendrils curling and grasping like they’ve got somewhere important to be. I get it. There’s a restlessness in the air, and they seem to feel it too. Nearby, the poppies sway gently, their soft green leaves catching the light just right. I can’t help but root for them — these fragile, stubborn little things that refuse to be anything other than beautiful, no matter how rough the weather’s been.
Inside the farmhouse, every windowsill, table, and shelf is filling up with trays of seedlings. Warm-weather blooms — zinnias, cosmos, and sunflowers — stretch up under the soft glow of grow lights. The whole house smells like damp soil, and there’s something comforting about that — a reminder that life is already stirring, even before the frost fully lets go. It feels good to have my hands in the dirt, even if my body doesn’t always cooperate the way I wish it would. There’s a comfort in the slowness, in the extra steps it takes me to do what comes easy to others. Sometimes it’s frustrating, sure — but there’s also a kind of beauty in tending to life at my own pace, learning to listen to my body just as much as I listen to the land.
The planning always feels like a dance between joy and overwhelm. I sit at the kitchen table, notebook open, trying to fit all my dreams into a patchwork of raised beds and open rows. There’s never quite enough room, never quite enough time, but somehow, it always finds a way to work itself out. There’s something humbling about realizing the land has its own plans, and no matter how carefully I draw the maps, the flowers always have the final say.
And then there’s the part no one talks about enough — the constant tug-of-war between excitement and worry. This time of year, it’s like living with a hummingbird heart, fluttering between the thrill of another growing season and the fear of falling behind before I even begin. Farming, especially with a body that doesn’t always play along, means always hoping I’ve done enough, always wondering if this is the year I finally find my rhythm. The work is slower, the obstacles a little taller, but the love is just as deep. Maybe deeper.
But in the afternoons, when the warmth settles in and the breeze carries just a hint of what’s to come, all that worry fades for a moment. I can close my eyes and feel the sun on my face, hear the quiet rustle of life waking up all around me, and I remember why I do this. Why I plant hope with every seed, even when the weight of it feels too heavy to carry.
Spring is coming — you can feel it in the air, in the soil, and in the quiet promise of each tiny green sprout. And here, under these South Georgia pines, in this old brick farmhouse with its windowsills full of dreams, I’m learning to greet the season exactly as I am — hands dirty, heart wide open, ready for whatever blooms.
— From the farmhouse under the pines, with love and a little bit of dirt under my nails
-c
We are organic Flower Farm in Georgia
