How wise were the Earth Day founders to honor our “other mother” on this day, in this season (at least for those of us in the northern hemisphere).
For who can ignore the earth on a day like this: just warming, just greening, filled with eye-popping color.
With tender shoots and delicate blossoms.
Still far too many of us, I’m afraid.
The new month has crept up on me. Though it is April in reality, it is March in my mind. What to do about this? Get out and walk through it, I suppose.
I’ll be looking for the usual signs: violets nodding in the early grass, bluebells along the path. The yellow blossoms of forsythia greening along the stem. And if we’re lucky, the dogwood and azaleas will overlap enough to make the tableau you see above.
Winds will blow, rain will fall, maybe even snow. But the sun will mean business. That’s another way to know that April is really here.
I’ve visited Washington, D.C.’s cherry blossoms a couple dozen times through the years, but this is the first time I’ve seen them through the lens of a good camera.
Though I am a novice photographer, I’m an expert blossom-navigator. I can slip through crowds, skip over puddles and keep moving through the inevitable hordes of tourists.
Yesterday the Tidal Basin gave back with picture-perfect weather, peak-bloom blossoms, and the picnickers, strollers and flower-lovers that made this the place to be in the DMV.
The cherry trees are calling … and I’d like to answer them in person. It’s been three years since they were open for business — a funny way to describe them but true since the trees that encircle the Tidal Basin can be (and were) cordoned off.
It’s different when you have a perishable to-do in mind, something that won’t stay put if you wait too long. The cherry trees are a perfect example. They’re in peak bloom now, but all it will take is a hard rain or a brisk breeze and they will be but a shadow of their current selves. And even without those, there’s only so long they will last.
Unlike other things I mean to do then, visiting the cherry blossoms has an all-too-real expiration date.
So I’m looking at my schedule and hurrying up my homework … and with any luck I’ll visit soon.
A walk through Georgetown before class last evening renewed my hankering for Lenten roses. What creamy beauties they are, how full-bodied compared with their early spring cousins the snowdrop and winter aconite. I’ve wanted to plant Lenten roses (also known as hellebores) for years, but now I’m on a mission.
Of course, last night I was being swayed by the excellent company the plants were keeping, by the environment in which I spotted them. A late winter afternoon, sun slanting low over cobblestones, grand houses standing guard over a neighborhood I could walk through for hours and never tire of.
Even a dandelion would look good in that setting.
When I looked out my office window yesterday morning, the world was an unremitting winter gray, with just a touch of green from the grass and hollies.
Today, I see three sprays of yellow witch hazel, which burst into partial bloom with the afternoon’s balmy warmth.
We’ll see how those spare blossoms fare now, with temperatures falling into the 40s and a wild northwest wind battering the bamboo and waving the sweet gum branches.
I remind myself that the witch hazel is hardy and used to such shenanigans. It’s bloomed in far worse. Plus … those small yellow flowers are out among us now — and there’s nothing that winter can do about that.
For the last week or so I’ve been slipping into the backyard when inside chores are done to plant iris, allium and daffodils. I usually miss the sunniest part of the afternoon, so it’s a wintry chore as I dig into the hard clay soil.
But it has a spring purpose. It’s a vote of confidence, a leap of faith made in deep winter, when boughs lie leafless, that green will come again, that these packets of potential will send down roots and bring forth flowers.
Today I barely finished before sunset. But nine more narcissus bulbs are in the ground, and at five minutes a bulb, I figure we are 45 minutes closer to spring.
As temperatures plunged into the 20s, we brought in the ferns and the spider plant and the cactus. They are hunkered down here where temps are in the upper 60s, heading for a high of 70 once the furnace moves to its daytime setting. Because some of the plants are so large they must be moved in on little dollies, they will stay inside now till spring.
But I will add a wistful note, a plea to the weather gods. It’s nothing personal, nothing against the plants themselves. But I hope it won’t be long before they can be outside again.
The end of a gardening season is a good time to ponder next year’s plan … and next year I’ll plant more zinnias. Next year, I’ll welcome their hues and warmth into my life. Next year I’ll be bolder.
This year, I sowed a few zinnia seeds out front and back. But it was late in the season, a half-hearted attempt. This was the only survivor, a stalk that craned its neck toward the sun and produced one forlorn flower that bloomed a few days ago.
Next year, I’ll start seeds indoors in egg cartons. I’ll nurture those babies with sprinkles and grow lights. And when the soil is warm I’ll transplant them into sunny spots in the garden I’ll prepare soon.
It’s October, spring promises are easy to make — and the imaginary garden has no end of delights.
(Zinnia bouquet photo courtesy Drilnoth, Wikimedia Commons)
