There’s a moment every spring when the land calls out, ready to shake off winter’s grip. The frost has seeped deep, the snowmelt has done its work, and the garden, still tangled with last year’s growth, waits. That’s when we know: it’s time to burn.
Since our kids were little, burning the garden has been a seasonal rite of passage—an old tradition with deep roots in regenerative farming. Fire, when used with care, isn’t destruction; it’s renewal. It clears away the dead, making way for the living. It warms the soil, releases nutrients, and preps the earth for planting in a way that no rake or tiller ever could.
There’s something primal about it. The smell of smoke drifting through cool spring air, the crackle of flames licking up brittle stalks, the way the heat rolls over bare skin—it connects us to something ancient. Before fertilizers, before rototillers, before neat rows and plastic mulch, there was fire. The first farmers knew what we often forget: the land thrives in cycles, and fire is part of that rhythm.
It’s a family affair. Bina was just a toddler the first time he stood in the damp grass, wide-eyed, as we lit the first patch. Now, even though he’s out making his own way in the world, he still talks about those burns—how they signaled the start of the growing season, the anticipation of green shoots, fresh food, and long afternoons in the sun. Richard, towering over me now, takes on the heavier work, managing the burn line and keeping an eye on the wind. It’s a balance of respect and control, of knowing when to let the fire do its work and when to step in.
Lucky, of course, wants no part of it. He watches from the porch, unimpressed by our annual tradition.
And when the flames die down, when the ash settles into the soil, we stand back and take it in: a fresh canvas, dark and rich, ready for the next chapter.
Spring is here. The land is waking up. And once again, the cycle begins.
