The Seasons Didn’t Ask Us: Spring, Seeds, and Other Small Rebellions
At some point in history, humans decided there are four seasons in a year—clean, quarterly divisions that suggest we know what to expect for the next 120 days or so. A comforting idea. The land, of course, did not agree to this arrangement.
Four months ago, the seeds were sleeping. Now, everything is awake—slowly, steadily pushing outward, on its own timeline, indifferent to our calendars, plans, or productivity metrics.
Here in New England, the shift between seasons still catches me off guard. My human brain craves consistency, something stable to anchor to. But the seasons refuse to perform on command. They stretch, then stall, then surge, and contradict themselves daily. They ask for attention, not control.
Spring is especially chaotic. Rain to sleet to snow, sweaters in the morning and tank tops by the afternoon. You check the forecast, and it feels more like a suggestion than a fact. And yet, beneath all that unpredictability is something deeply reliable: a quiet, relentless push toward growth.
It is slow enough to test your patience and strong enough to ignore your doubt.
You weed a bed, and three days later it humbles you again. You stare at a tray of soil for weeks, convinced nothing is happening, and then suddenly—tiny green life, as if it was just waiting for you to stop hovering. Birds return. Vernal pools appear overnight. Frogs start calling like they’ve been rehearsing all winter. Yellowjackets begin their annual search for real estate, completely unconcerned with human opinions.
Spring feels a little surreal. It is generous, and sometimes it carries a quiet kind of grief too. Both can exist at once. This season holds excitement, hope, and a particular kind of frustration—the kind that comes when change is happening faster than we can adapt, or perhaps when we are trying to move slower in a society that often demands speed.
Long before the soil was warm enough to plant into—while there was still snow on the ground—Green Muse Farm was already in motion. Planning, building, organizing, and gravitating toward others meandering along their own equally crooked paths.
Our logo, created by the incredible artist K Lenore (snakeoclock on Instagram / @snakeoclock.com), reflects something central to this farm. It holds the influence of artists, outsiders, and anyone choosing not to follow the default settings. It frames plants not just as products, but as collaborators—quiet, steady presences that support creativity, nourishment, healing, and expression. Not flashy. Not loud. But very much an integral part of our environment.
Because this work isn’t just about growing things to sell. It’s about participating in relationships—with land, with plants, with community—and maybe rethinking what “value” actually means along the way.
Green Muse Farm exists because of the support of New Entry Sustainable Farming Project (Newentrysustainablefarming on Instagram / @nesfp.org). The generosity of knowledge, time, and care within that community has shaped this farm in ways that are both visible and invisible, and deeply felt.
This season, you can find us at the Annisquam (Instagram @annisquamfarmersmarket), Melrose (Instagram @melrosefarmersmarket), and Brighton farmers markets (Instagram @brighton.farmers).
Still in June, the nights are dipping into the 40s. Despite what the calendar (and every retail display) says, summer is not fully here. Growth is happening, just not on demand.
So for these early markets, there won’t be cut flowers or fresh herbs.
Not yet.
But there will be abundance in another form—seedlings. Edible, medicinal, and beautiful plants ready to be brought into your own spaces. Small beginnings you can tend, observe, and grow alongside.
Spring isn’t handing us perfection. It’s handing us possibility, in starter‑pack form.
Honestly, I’ll take that over “instant” anything.
And as the season slowly catches up with itself, Green Muse Farm will be offering a medicinal herb CSA and a summer flower CSA. Seedlings now, medicinal herbs and riotous summer flowers soon—stay tuned.
