This week, I saw the first seedlings pushing through the seed starting mix. After a week of staring at soil, there they were, two pale green leaves, still folded and fragile, but undeniably alive.
Echinops bannaticus 'Blue Glow' (aka globe thistle). The first to germinate. I started the seeds in soil blocks that I put in the freezer for a couple weeks. So far, only two of the twenty seeds germinated. The seeds that didn't germinate went back into the cold in hopes I can coax them to germinate with more cold stratification.
The first 2 Globe thistle seeds to germinate out of the 20 planted
I've started seeds for years, but this moment never gets old. That first green is always exciting.
I also saw life from four other plants this week:
Calamintha nepeta (white blooming Nepeta)
Verbascum chaixii f. album (Mullein 'Wedding Candles')
I'm winter sowing outside in Ziploc bags and plastic containers. I know that sounds weird until you realize that I don't have any milk jugs.
Winter sowing is a great way to grow seeds that need cold stratification. They look abandoned. But inside those containers, the seeds are waiting for the exact right moment to germinate.
I check on them every morning hoping to see signs of life.
Quick look at the Winter sowing section on my patio on 2-8-26
Closer view of the Winter sowing situation on my patio
A Block Print for February
I found this block print on the National Galleries of Scotland website—snowdrops, printed around 1935 by the English artist Mabel Royds (1874-1941).
Snowdrops (Galanthus) are called "February fair-maids" in old English texts. They bloom when nothing else will. They sometimes grow through snow, which is how they got their name. The Victorians saw them as symbols of hope and new beginnings and they planted them by the thousands.
The artist who made this print, Mabel Royds, understood the thrill of seeing the first snowdrops.
This print is a reminder that I want to build a garden where early bloomers are part of the design.
What This Week Taught Me
Starting seeds in February feels like a bold act of faith. It's cold outside. It's grey. The garden is months away. But these tiny seedlings under lights and the winter sowing bags covered in snow are reminding me:
The work happens before we can see it.
The garden teaches us to be patient. We show up, observe, and wait. And that slow, invisible work pays off come Spring.
Garden Moxie Field Notes is a record of my Kentucky garden as it unfolds. Every other week I share the design principles guiding my choices, the plants being trialed, the failures and the keepers, and whatever else the season brings.
