Winter hangs on stubbornly this year. Yet, in spite of lingering snow falls and temps hovering in the low 30s, the natural world slowly awakens. During the night I heard a flock of tundra swans call to each other as they migrated north. Robins carol and cardinals sing in the early morning darkness. Later in the day, dark-eyed juncos trill as they search the sunny exposed parts of our garden for last year’s seeds. The tiny birds have been daily visitors since October and soon will depart for their summer home in Canada.
Dark-eyed juncos (Junco hyemalis) will soon migrate to their breeding territories in Canada.
Ivory-petaled snowdrops are ready to bloom.The first Siberian squill bulbs poked through the cold, wet soil of our back garden at the same time as the tiny, sharp leaves of iris. Silver maple buds glow rosy and round in the late afternoon sunlight and the soft, furry catkins of quaking aspen have emerged.
A snowdrop (Galanthus nivalis) blossoms in a sunny spot beneath a spruce tree.
Quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides) flowers begin to emerge.
I want this slow showing of spring to speed up, but it should not be hurried. Soon enough I will want the season to slow down — it all happens in such a rush once it gains momentum in May, and hurdles toward blossoming, fruiting, and autumn once again. I have learned that, as with all of life’s special times, it is better to wait for, notice and welcome each change; to savor the whole unfolding of new life.
Crocus chrysanthus ‘ladykiller’ usually bloom in April.
‘Maureen’ tulip bulbs bloom in late spring.
In the darkness of a warm, late November evening, my sister planted hope for the spring in my garden: five waxy-smooth, tear drop-shaped “Maureen” tulip bulbs. As she dug the bulb planter into the moist earth, the soil released fresh scents of spicy bee balm, native geraniums, and the pleasant odor of dirt and old leaves.
We nestled each bulb into its own little chamber, filled each space with dirt, lightly watered them and returned the blanket of fallen leaves. I placed a temporary cover of chicken wire and stones on the soil, until it freezes, to discourage squirrels from digging up the bulbs.
Spring bulbs emerging from their winter sleep is a highlight of spring for me.
I think about those small packets of life tucked into the dark earth, and wait for them to ride out the winter. Yes, it’s later than desirable to plant bulbs, but it is how it worked out this year for many reasons. I choose to have hope that they will survive. While I wait, I’ll dream of a mild April day when I’ll walk out the back door and spot bright green shoots poking up through the wet soil. I’ll watch them form buds and bloom; cool ivory against a field of blue Siberian squill and green foliage. In a special way, I will recall the two “Maureens” in my life: a wise aunt who died this past summer and a wonderful young niece who shares her name.
A ‘Maureen’ tulip from a previous spring.