Last week we encountered Part One of a stimulus package. It’s not sufficient to solve all our woes, but it was enough to give us hope.

Some knew how to take advantage of its provisions. Others were caught a bit off guard. We only managed to sit, our faces turned toward heaven, with questions bouncing around like pin-balls in our brains.

“Why do I live this way?” “Why can’t I have the life I’ve always dreamed about, living off the land near a beach?” “Could it be possible to trade in boots, high heels, or wingtips for flip-flops?”

There will be those among us who are never satisfied. They will complain and moan and whine, even though there is nothing they can do about it. They want to live in a state of perpetual sunshine, without thought to the current climate, or the desperate needs of those around them.

And this is the winter of our discontent: when it seems that all of our preparation was for naught. Our valuable investments are dormant. It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor, everyone is dealing with the same issues to some degree. The rain falls on the just and the unjust. And the sun shines on the prepared and the unprepared.

Now, I’m not talking about the American Recovery and Reinvestment Act of 2009 that was signed by President Obama since my last column. I’m talking about actual sunshine that brought the promise of spring.

Like a flower bursting forth from a bud, I unfolded my cold, weary limbs from my perch at the computer. I ventured outside to survey the damage from the storms of winter. I raked, and primped, and planned. And I soaked up all the warmth I could find.

On Sunday I went to the Northwest Flower and Garden Show with my friends Hank and Kate. Part One of the Sunshine Stimulus Package already had me thinking about gardens and yard work. We went early, before the fragrance of flowers was diluted by the presence of eager gardeners. At the entrance I stopped, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply. For the next six hours my mind was racing with ideas for improving our little plot of earth. It was Part Two of the stimulus package.

Driving home, I noticed a neighbor’s forsythia standing dormant at the foot of their driveway. Like the “girl-next-door,” it is virtually invisible until spring when she catches your eye with a brilliant dress of purest yellow. I knew that Part Three, the creation of new jobs, would kick in about the time that the forsythia blooms. Meanwhile, I have a plan, and my gardens are shovel-ready.