Last fall, for a hundred reasons, I didn't plant a single bulb, in fact I barely touched the gardens around our house; I'm not entirely certain I winterized anything out there.
I let the gardens fall under the weight of frost and then snow. All winter long, I ignored them, buried deep just beyond my window panes. I watched the snowflakes pile one on top of the other until I could no longer see the markers at the end of the garden path or the tip top of the peony bushes that still stood tall in their metal cages because I didn't cut any of the dead branches back at the end of the season. I sat by as the wind whipped snow into first ankle deep, then knee deep then, in spots, hip deep drifts. Our back yard was a blanket of fluffy white, mostly quiet and tranquil except when the sun deigned to make an appearance. Then it hurt my eyes to look outside, the glare bouncing on the razor sharp edges of snowflakes.
Slowly, though, as the winter wore on, I began to think about what was buried deep beneath the frigid mounds. I began to plan for them again. A thought here, a note of something new to plant there. Sporadic, at best, but thoughts nonetheless.
By Easter, I was ready to rake and pull and cut and make room for something new and lovely out of the fallow and silent. I had my rain boots on and my rake and clippers in hand, the sun was warm on the top of my head and my expectations of this early forage into the gardens were low - very low.
So you can imagine my surprise at the small shoots all over the place, carrying on as if I hadn't neglected them at all. Green leaves curling into the sun, reaching up. From the darkness of winter comes forth abundant spring.
The truth is, we all need that rest, the cold cover of a winter season. And I found in those moments, as I stared in wonder at my garden's ability to persevere and press on, that I appreciated those fledgling green curls of leaf so much more than I ever have before. In spite of all of that darkness - or perhaps because of it - we still have the ability to bloom.
Last fall, for a hundred reasons, I didn't plant a single bulb, in fact I barely touched the gardens around our house; I'm not entirely certain I winterized anything out there.
I let the gardens fall under the weight of frost and then snow. All winter long, I ignored them, buried deep just beyond my window panes. I watched the snowflakes pile one on top of the other until I could no longer see the markers at the end of the garden path or the tip top of the peony bushes that still stood tall in their metal cages because I didn't cut any of the dead branches back at the end of the season. I sat by as the wind whipped snow into first ankle deep, then knee deep then, in spots, hip deep drifts. Our back yard was a blanket of fluffy white, mostly quiet and tranquil except when the sun deigned to make an appearance. Then it hurt my eyes to look outside, the glare bouncing on the razor sharp edges of snowflakes.
Slowly, though, as the winter wore on, I began to think about what was buried deep beneath the frigid mounds. I began to plan for them again. A thought here, a note of something new to plant there. Sporadic, at best, but thoughts nonetheless.
By Easter, I was ready to rake and pull and cut and make room for something new and lovely out of the fallow and silent. I had my rain boots on and my rake and clippers in hand, the sun was warm on the top of my head and my expectations of this early forage into the gardens were low - very low.
So you can imagine my surprise at the small shoots all over the place, carrying on as if I hadn't neglected them at all. Green leaves curling into the sun, reaching up. From the darkness of winter comes forth abundant spring.
The truth is, we all need that rest, the cold cover of a winter season. And I found in those moments, as I stared in wonder at my garden's ability to persevere and press on, that I appreciated those fledgling green curls of leaf so much more than I ever have before. In spite of all of that darkness - or perhaps because of it - we still have the ability to bloom.
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