REACHING FOR THE LIGHT

Early March has a way of fooling you around here. One day it feels like spring, the next like midsummer — heat pressing in from all sides, sunlight sharp enough to make the air shimmer. But even in the warmth, even in the worry of it being too much, too soon, everything on the farm feels alive in a way I haven't experienced.

Apple Blossoms

Healthy ranunculus plants reaching for the sky

A bundle of anemones plucked in the early morning light

Inside the tunnel, the anemones keep unfurling — not just one or two, but a handful, finally enough to imagine a full bouquet. Their colors and fluffy forms soften the space, little jewels tucked in the filtered light, their stems standing taller every day - determined to make a debut.

The ranunculus are the true show‑offs, though. Big, lush, full plants — so full, in fact, that I added another layer of netting just to keep them standing tall. There’s something about seeing them push upward, layer after layer, that makes hope feel like something you can hold in your hands.

And the lisianthus? They’ve officially joined the race toward the sky. Their stems are starting to stretch, reaching for the light like they’ve finally made up their minds about where they’re going.

Every day is shaped by the rhythm of chores - beginning after my day job comes to a close - planting seeds for summer crops, watering the indoor rows and outdoor beds, pacing row by row just to check on everybody in the heat and pulling the occasional weed. It is exhausting. It is honest. And it is truly wonderful. For the first time, I can see the dream in vivid color.

Crashed out on the couch with Luna - Before Dinner.

Outside the tunnel, the lilies — 200 hybrid, double‑flowering, pollenless beauties — wasted no time getting settled. They shot up like miniature palm trees in the sandy loam, tall and bright and full of promise. Their potential felt enormous, like a curtain about to lift.

Daisy posing in front of my new magnolia, already in bloom.

The land itself is taking shape in ways I can finally point to. The big metal building went up — a real structure, sturdy and purposeful. For the first time, we have a place to store tools, equipment, our things. Rob hauled all of his tools up from Austin, and something about seeing them lined up inside that new building makes the whole dream feel less like a wish and more like a life we are actually building.

Everywhere I look, something is growing: plants, rows, plans, confidence.

It’s funny how suddenly it hit me —we’re really doing this. The cut flowers look incredible, but so does everything else! The orchard? Check. Every tree is leafing out. The shop? Check. Complete. The landscaping? We're getting there! Even the peonies are all full of foliage.

So I did something a little bold. A little thrilling. A little historic, if you ask me. I asked Duckie to come up on April 11th to help me at the farmer’s market. My first market. My first chance to stand behind a table and say, “I grew these especially for you."

I see it all so clearly now - buckets of flowers lined up - anemones, ranunculus, maybe even a few early lilies if the season stays kind. I imagine Duckie beside me, the two of us figuring it out together, laughing the way we always do. And she approves of the items I've chosen for the market - a cute display stand, bouquet sleeves, a few vases and a sign - our sign. Southern Charm Flower Farm, indelibly etched on a nylon flag.

Optimism feels easy this week. Natural. This is exactly how it's always supposed to have been.

Everything on the farm is reaching upward, leaning into the light, including me.

A tiny arrangement of Italian Anemones and one lone ranunculus!