Monday is a contemplative day. I gave up the idea of being productive on this day. I gave in to my natural tendency to wander, fiddle, jump between ideas and occupations, talk to myself out loud. I fell in love with Kai Chang Thom and spent some time obsessively reading about her work and searching for her podcasts. I spent time reading up about the patterns on vyshivankas. I do not blame myself for being unproductive, neither do I feel bad. Instead, I feel the length of the day, the passing of time, the way things fit together, the echoes of Rosie’s drumming.

On the way to and from school we stop multiple times to perform the sacred ritual: pick up the ripe dandelions and blow their seeds in the wind. We are strategic, we try to blow near the grassy patches, choosing the ones untouched by the mower. When I was a child, I used to blow dandelions for luck, my kids do it with solemn trust that the seeds will give new life. When I was a child, I used to weave dandelion crowns, wear them, the leaves the wilting flowers to die. My children would never pick a yellow dandelion, they let them to the pollinators. But the magical ritual of the ripe dandelion preserves itself through the cultures and generations.

On our way to and from school we are stopping to listen to the tiny peeps of the nestlings. Then we notice a bluejay defending her nest against a crow and worry helplessly, wishing the crow to fly away, but not willing to offend her by throwing stones or sticks. Finally, the crow flies away. Then we look at two robins collecting food for their offspring.

The greatest gift I gave myself this spring and am now giving my children is learning to recognise and name the local plants and birds. I have always truffled with loneliness and lack of belonging, but now, as I step outside and see them, and know them: colt’s foot, dawny yellow violet, bloodroot, eastern phoebe, song sparrow, I feel that I belong.