THEN THE LAND EXHALED
- Amanda Foster
- Feb 1
- 2 min read
Updated: Mar 20
When the New Year came and went, the land seemed to shift with it. The snow melted quietly into the soil, the air softened, and the tunnel — our freshly built, wind‑battled, snow‑kissed tunnel — stood waiting for whatever came next.
And so did I.
Inside the rig, trays of seedlings crowded every warm corner. Bulbs slept in crates. Corms waited with that quiet patience they’re known for. Everything in my world felt like it was holding its breath, ready for the moment the sun returned.
And when it did, the season truly began.
Planting the Tunnel
My workdays were still full, so most of the planting happened in the evenings. I’d close my laptop, pull on my boots, and walk the familiar path down to the tunnel — sometimes with Daisy and Luna trotting cheerfully ahead, sometimes alone with only my thoughts and the crunch of gravel for company.
Inside the tunnel, the light felt different. Softer. Focused. The shade cloth cast a silvery glow that felt like an embrace — a promise that this space was ready to become more than steel and plastic.
Row by row, I planted seedlings, bulbs, and corms — tiny, hopeful things tucked into soil still cool from winter.
There was a rhythm to it: Hands in the dirt. Wind rustling the plastic overhead. Dogs investigating corners. Sun slipping lower. Life unfurling quietly in the rows.
As the shape of the tunnel took form, I stretched netting over the beds for future support, organized tools, and tucked little markers into place. The tunnel slowly shifted from a “project” to a growing space — the heartbeat of our early season.
Meanwhile, Outside the Tunnel
While I buried myself in planting, Rob turned his attention to the outdoor garden.
If the tunnel was my domain, the fence became his.
He measured, dug, leveled, and built — post by post, board by board — creating a sturdy line of defense between my future blooms and the hungry wildlife that sees flower farming as an all‑you‑can‑eat buffet.
The gate he built swings with a satisfying weight, the kind that already feels like it’s guarding something important. And in a way, it is.
Together, our work started painting the land with purpose — rows forming under soft shade, a fenced garden rising from the ground, footpaths appearing where we walked day after day.
The land was waking up. And we were, too.
The First Real Steps Toward Bloom
Those early weeks felt like the true start of the growing season. The tunnel was planted. The outdoor beds were protected. The sun was shining again.
Every seedling tucked into the soil felt like a small declaration: We’re doing this. We’re really doing this.
And with the sun back overhead, it didn’t just feel possible — it felt real.
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