Ostara at Three Leaf Farm

Spring on the Front Range is not tidy.

It is mud. Mud on your boots. Mud on the horses. Mud on the dogs. Mud in the car. Mud in the barn aisle. Mud on the fence rails. Mud tracked across floors you just swept five minutes ago. Boots lined up at the door. Towels permanently living on the back porch. Mud, mud, mud.

There are ten dogs in our family, which means ten dogs discovering spring at the exact same moment. They find every deep puddle left by melting snow in the pasture and charge through them with joy and absolutely no hesitation. Some head straight for the river for what they consider an early spring swim. Others come back decorated in dried burdock burrs, tangled in fur or wedged painfully between toes. They hate having them pulled out. They protest loudly. And then, the moment you let them go, they run directly back to do it again.

The horses are giant mud monsters. The prospect of grooming one to ride is daunting, because they roll in the mud with complete commitment. They stand at the gate, proud of their muddy coats, watching you with innocent eyes as you contemplate riding in the muddy arena. And as you take on the task of grooming, they shed in clumps. Piles everywhere, looking as though someone committed a terrible crime at the hitching post. Tufts gather against fence rails and barn doors, drifting across the yard like tumbleweeds of hair. The barn smells like thawing earth and hay dust.

Ostara here is not a soft unfolding. It is negotiation.

The high altitude sun is strong enough to burn our faces in March. Jackets come off by noon, only to be replaced when the sun slips behind a cloud. Layers are peeled back while working outside, then pulled on again when the wind shifts. Gloves off. Gloves on. Hat in your pocket. Hat back on your head. And yes, mud on all of that too.

Plants begin to push up with quiet determination. Baby garlic spearing through cold soil. Nettles returning in the wetlands and low places. Teasel rosettes spreading low against the ground, patient and unmistakable.

And then snow again the next day. Covered. Quiet. Waiting.

The mountains in the distance remain fully white. They will hold snow for months yet. They remind us not to rush.

Spring is cleanup season.

The farm has rested all winter. Or perhaps more honestly, it has been a little neglected while snow and cold made everything harder. Now everything asks for attention at once. The greenhouse needs clearing and washing. The garage doors finally open and tools are sorted back into usefulness. The kitchenette is scrubbed and restocked. Hoop houses are repaired and readied. Seed trays are found. Lights tested. Shelves wiped down.

Branches fallen during winter storms lie scattered along the trails and fence lines and must be gathered before grasses grow tall around them. Compost is laid across the fields as the tractor gets to work for the season, engine rumbling after months of quiet. Beds are amended. Soil turned. Plans become work.

Seed catalogs spread across the kitchen table. Orders are placed carefully. Fields are plotted and replotted in pencil. What rotates. What rests. What gets another chance this year. What we decide is not worth the effort to grow again. Rows imagined long before they exist.

Cold hardy greens might go in. Tomatoes do not. Irrigation lines are checked before water runs strong. Fences are walked. Gates rehung. Compost turned again. Everywhere there is something small that must be made ready before growth begins.

Balance at Ostara is not theoretical. It is practical. Day and night stand equal, but winter and spring do not. They overlap.

The elements are easy to see this time of year. Air in the wind that never quite stops. Earth in dark soil and thick mud clinging to boots. Water in melting snow, swollen ditches, and dogs dripping happily across the yard. Fire in the sun that burns your cheeks before you realize it.

Ostara at Three Leaf Farm is less about celebration than readiness.

It is standing in the middle. Between seasons. Between cold and warmth. Between what has rested and what is about to ask everything of you again.

The Equinox is the hinge.