In spite of my insufficiencies, though, every year about this time I develop a compelling need-a primal urge-to dig in the dirt, to turn over a spadeful of sod, to sink a seedling into its earthen bed, to soak its roots with water drawn from the backyard spigot. I can't seem to help myself. I must plant something.

Maybe it's hereditary. My mom has never been able to let May slip away without potting up the petunias or training a clematis vine, and both of my grandmothers seemed to find bliss in the simple gathering of pussy willow branches and lilac bouquets.

As I ponder this desire to grow something-especially some-thing lovely-and as I wonder about the source of this need, it occurs to me that maybe gardening is simply an affirmation of life. It's a chance to work with God, to participate first-hand in Creation! It's about encouraging a living thing to take root, to mature, to thrive.

Is it any wonder we associate plants and flowers with Mother's Day, the occasion on which we think about the person who first encouraged us to take root, mature and thrive?

And is it any wonder we associate plants and flowers with Memorial Day, the occasion on which we think about lives lost in pursuit of certain purposes. What we grow on the graves of our soldiers is a crop of hope, a persistent sign that we quest after life, not war. We quest after beauty, not destruction.

It is almost time to plant. I feel it in my bones. As the sun warms the earth, the fresh cycle begins.