Catalogs, Pictures, Seeds, and Smiles
January has a certain kind of magic, doesn’t it? Outside, the world might still be wrapped in frost and quiet, but inside—on kitchen tables, tucked into armchairs, and beside cozy reading nooks—a different kind of season is blooming. It’s the season of catalogs, ink-smudged fingers flipping through glossy pages filled with flowers in every shade imaginable, while I try to remember what I have already ordered.
There’s something about a seed catalog that feels like holding a tiny promise in your hands. A promise of warmer days, the smell of soil, and the coveted green shoots breaking through the soil. It’s not just about seeds—it’s about possibility. It’s about the simple joy of imagining what could be and with dash of magic and intention, WILL be.
This time of year, I find myself smiling over crinkled pages and dog-eared corners, daydreaming about rows of sunflowers towering above me and wild zinnias blowing in the breeze. Each little seed feels like a story waiting to be told—a reminder that from something so small, something extraordinary can grow.
When I run my fingers over the packets of seeds, it feels like I’m holding tiny time capsules. A marigold seed carries the memory of golden blooms glowing in the late summer sun. Tomato seeds hold the taste of sun-warmed fruit eaten straight off the vine. Seed collecting is such an intentional little ritual, isn’t it? There’s reverence in it. Patience. Trust. It’s not just about ensuring a good crop next season. It’s about believing—believing that something so tiny, so seemingly insignificant, holds the potential to become something abundant and beautiful when the time is right.
The first weeks January always find me scrolling through photos I took during last summer’s growing season. A dahlia just after a rainstorm, heavy with droplets. A row of carrots freshly pulled from the soil, their bright orange tops peeking through muddy roots. The way the light hit the garden gate one quiet evening.
These pictures aren’t just photos—they’re tiny bursts of joy. Little time machines that transport me back to warm evenings and busy, buzzing afternoons in the garden. They remind me why I do this, why I keep planting, nurturing, and showing up season after season. There is a reason why my Photos library has over 100,000 shots in it.
For me, gardening doesn’t start when the seeds hit the soil. It starts here, in the quiet days of winter, with catalogs spread across the kitchen island, sticky notes marking pages, and a hot cup of tea nearby. This stage is its own kind of magic. No weeds to pull. No pests to chase away. Just imagination and possibility. It’s a reminder that not all growth is visible—some of it happens in the dreaming, in the planning, in the quiet willingness to believe in what’s yet to come.
By the end of January, my husband will be wondering what we are going to do with all the plants my seeds will generate. My imagination will be buzzing. This shot of Lucy and Ricky says it all! My new camera will be ready to capture it all. The art of the farm, giving us inspiration from all photos. And my heart? My heart will feel full and light and buzzing with the incredible excitement of what’s to come.
Because here’s the thing: January isn’t lifeless. It isn’t dull or dreary. It’s abundant with promise. With every seed ordered, every picture captured, and every little note scribbled in the margins of a catalog, we’re planting something deep within ourselves, too—a seed of hope, of patience, of joy.
So here’s to catalogs spread across sunlit tables, to pictures that remind us of the beauty we’ve already grown, to seeds tucked safely in boxes ready to be planted and to the smiles that bloom quietly in the middle of winter.
The garden isn’t here yet, but oh, isn’t it wonderful to imagine?
