New! Click to listen to the essay. It’s me, mistakes and all. I’m going for a done, not perfect, approach. Fits with today’s theme. Please let me know if this is a helpful/fun/user friendly/easy addition to the newsletter and if so, I’ll do it every time. I planted spring bulbs in a light hail storm yesterday. The ground was soft after heavy rain the night before; digging was easy. I wore my husband's sailing gear - waterproof overalls and a matching jacket, rain boots and gardening gloves. I was overdressed, but I had fifty dollars of bulbs to put in the ground, bought hastily the other day after my friend Piia texted with the reminder to get bulbs in the ground, asap, before it freezes. I didn’t have time to mess around. I bought the bulbs at Halifax Seed. I arrived just as woman in a teal Subaru was pulling up. She had bangs the same colour as her car. Together we dug through the dregs of their bulb collection, both with the frantic air of a late-November bulb shopper. Some were massive, the size of small onions, others looked like shriveled plums or bulbs of garlic. The blue banged woman and I carefully counted the bulbs by the dozen, tipped them into the paper bags provided, and scratched the names of the bulbs on the side of the bags. Purple scilla.  Silver bells.  Full star pink. Full star red.  White crocuses.  Grape hyacinth.  We both were grabbing at things, unknowing, but there was an understanding that we needed these bulbs. Winter stretches long into April in this part of the world. Pops of colour against the gray winter sky and cold black earth pull us through to mid-May, when spring begins in earnest.  “Have you heard the weather forecast for tomorrow?” I asked as we finished up our task. “It might freeze overnight,” she said, shrugging, “But just pour boiling water over the soil if you can’t get the shovel through. I’ve done that many times when planting garlic. Works like a charm.” The bulbs sat on the floor of our cold, drafty porch until yesterday. It turns out the ground was soft from rain the night before. It was a sign, a gift of nature. But the sun would set in an hour. This was my window.  I used to be a big procrastinator. In high school I would clean my room and bake a double batch of chocolate chip cookies before I sat down to do homework. I wrote essays through the night in my first year of university, then printed them off on a dot-matrix while I showered before class. I remember my friend Mark standing in the hallway, waiting for me, while the printer screeched back and forth, back and forth. When I started writing freelance pieces for the local paper I filed each story so late there was never enough time for edits. I dreaded seeing my editor’s number on my phone display. Almost done? She’d ask, hopefully. Almost, I’d say. Almost. I’m much better now. Things began to change when I realized the feeling of getting it done was better than putting it off. My husband’s grandfather always said, “why do it tomorrow when you can do it right now!” I will never be that fervent when attacking a to-do list, but I have tools and limitations to help me now: egg timers. A small desk of my own. Noise canceling headphones. A dog that needs walking. Kids with schedules. Weather patterns. They all help me get things done.  Most of the time. I’ve known about the annual cookie exchange for twelve months now. I have decided on my contribution (the ever popular peanut butter ball dipped in chocolate. I’ve shared the family history of those peanut butter balls over here). I have bought the ingredients. I even went to the hardware store, twice, to pick out a small scooper to shape the balls (I can hear my grandmother saying, “oh for goodness sake, what do you need a scooper for?” But I’m trying to up my game). The first time at the hardware store, the man at the counter held up the smallest scoop, a 1 ⅛’’, frowned and said, “I’d prefer a bigger peanu