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Category: seasons

Symbiosis

Symbiosis

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This weekend, a hint of spring: Not from the temperature, which was frigid, or the daylight hours, which were paltry — but from the robins, who swarmed in to feast on the holly berry. I heard them before I saw them — the beats of their wings and the tenor of their calls, which bring to mind an April morning.

In January robins are not harbingers of spring. They winter here and flock together to forage and roost. But their twittering sounds like spring, so I pretended. 

Watching them, taking closeups of them amid the shiny green leaves, made me think about symbiosis. The robins were just doing what they need to stay alive. But their presence was driving me out into the cold sunshine, where, at least that moment, I needed to be.

Frozen Walk

Frozen Walk

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It was a frozen world I walked through yesterday. Bundled up in my warmest coat, hooded and thick-socked, I made my way along the Franklin Farm trails, which were understandably empty. You know it’s cold when even the dog-walkers stay inside. 

The paths were mostly clear, but any pooled water was frozen solid. I stopped and examined the ice, snapped photos, wondered why some ice is milky white and other is clear, thought perhaps I should have learned that in high school but did not. Mostly, I moved quickly. A winter walk is bracing, as long as it’s short. 

Brave Buds

Brave Buds

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When life is limited, as it continues to be these days, I look for small changes. Walking routes are one of them. So I left the neighborhood, turned right instead of heading straight, and trudged along a busy four-lane road.

This took me past a nursery with plants I always admire, plants that look as pretty in winter as they do in summer, one with berries and one a yellowed evergreen.

How lovely the winter garden can be: how various the textures, how lively the stems. It’s as if we see the plants for what they truly are, the skeletons and the souls of them. 

In January, spent grasses nod their heads, brave buds raise their chins. All are waiting, waiting. If you listen carefully, you can hear them exhale.

Being Inside

Being Inside

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It is full-on winter now — temperature in the teens when I woke up. How right it feels, when the furnace hums and the clocks tick and the birds chirp, how right it feels for it to be cold outside. The snow falls and stays. The bare trees stand sentinel.

December was lovely but strange, warmer than some Octobers. Lawn care chores piled up around me. Bulb-planting blistered my palms. 

Now, being inside is not only expected, it is necessary. There is a kind of relief in that.

Open Calendar

Open Calendar

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A tree, a couch, an open week. These are days when dreaming is possible, when sitting still and doing nothing is not only permissible but almost encouraged. 

School is out, holiday to-dos are to-done. The calendar is open, the tasks complete. Even nature seems to be holding its breath. Autumn behind us, winter yet to truly begin.

Yesterday I watched two old movies and an episode of “The Ascent of Man.” Today I may put away some gifts and do a bit of tidying.

But then again … I may not.

Two Solstices

Two Solstices

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We have one Christmas, one Easter, one Independence Day. But we have two solstices: one for the shortest day and one for the longest.

As I sit here this morning, watching the world slowly lighten, I think about the imminent wisdom of these dual celebrations. You could see one as our pinnacle and one as our nadir. But there is a hopeful message in each, too.

In summer we revel in the long twilight, the early morning, the profusion. In winter we tell ourselves, it’s all up from here. 

We live in the present for one, in the future with the other. Surely we could do with a little of each.

Winterish

Winterish

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It’s not quite 11 a.m. and almost 60 degrees this December 17. The forsythia is confused.  

Yes, it lost its final leaves just two weeks ago, but the soft air and warm earth are belying the scant light, are sending messages of “why not” to the poor plant.

And what of us humans? Does it make sense to pack away the shorts and t-shirts, or should we just tuck them amongst the woolens? Are we navigating a new season here? 

Not quite winter. Let’s call it winterish. 

Already Advent

Already Advent

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We come now to one of my favorite times in the liturgical year. It’s a short season, one ever more likely to be buried in tinsel and outdoor lighting. It’s the season of Advent, of preparation, of prayers and devotionals.

It is almost lost in this world, buried by frantic list-making and shopping.By nonstop carol radio and the Hallmark Christmas movie channel. Every year I hope the prayer and devotional part wins out. Every year it does not. But Advent is early this year, so maybe it has a chance.

Advent reminds me of medieval stone abbeys, of kneeling on hard surfaces, of chanting the divine office in the wee hours. No doubt informed by once reading The Cloister Walk, a fine book by Kathleen Norris, during early December, but also, I think, by the hymns and carols of my youth. 

Now these are mostly memory, but still captured in a few plaintive melodies — O Come, O Come, Emmanuel, for one. I played it on the piano last night, trying to capture the hope and longing of this fleeting season. 

In Spring and Fall

In Spring and Fall

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The Kwanzan cherry tree puts on quite a show in the spring. It’s not the earliest bloomer; it waits until the soil has warmed and the forsythia and dogwood have paved the way. But when it finally gets going, it draws the eye to its big-fisted blossoms, its pink petals exploding from narrow stems.

What I’ve only started to appreciate is the show it puts on in autumn. Once again, it bides its time. Other leaves have changed, dried and blown away. But the leaves of the Kwanzan cherry have waited patiently — and this is their time.

They light up the late fall landscape, shimmering in dawns and dusks. They flutter in the breeze, brave flags waving. They gladden my heart each time I see them.

Way Too Early

Way Too Early

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The Washington and Old Dominion (W&OD) Rails to Trails path was bustling late yesterday when I finally made my way to it. There were runners and walkers and cyclists, mostly the latter zooming by with a brisk warning of “passing on the left.” 

I slipped into what I always think of as the “bridle path” part of the trail, the unpaved route that runs alongside the asphalt. But due to the bridges over Herndon and Fairfax County Parkways, I couldn’t always stay on that calmer and less traveled path. 

What I could do was to focus on the scenery I passed: the changing colors of the deciduous trees. 

The subtle beauty of the shaggy undergrowth … and the sun setting way too early, once again.