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Category: seasons

Sunday Stroll

Sunday Stroll

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So far, at least, we’re allowed to go outside, and I’m not alone in taking advantage of this privilege. The sidewalks and paths have been filled with bikers and walkers and rollerbladers. Today I found myself in a different neighborhood for a Sunday stroll.

It’s brisk, temperature in the 30s, but spring has sprung. The Bradford Pears are fully flowered, the daffodils are hanging on, and the forsythia is still sending its brilliant sprays skyward.

On this walk I found a swing and spent a pleasant few minutes pumping and flying, to the tune of Beethoven’s Waldstein, third movement.

Right up the path is a little lake bordered by flowering shrubs.— and there, I saw a bird I think could have been a scarlet tanager. It was a red bird with black wings, and it was gorgeous. Maybe it was a tanager, maybe it was not.* Either way, it was lovely.

(*Reason I will never be a birder.)

Being Outside

Being Outside

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Inside, we are quarantined, faithfully keeping our social distance. But outside … we are free.

I felt it today when I went for a walk in a gradually clearing day. The cold rain of early morning had misted away and what was left in its wake was a landscape filled with birdsong and puddles and forsythia popping.

All of a sudden, the day didn’t feel as gloomy. The fears of pandemic gave way to the beauty of spring.


(I’m rushing it a little with this photo; these iris won’t bloom until May.)

Counterbalance

Counterbalance

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The coronavirus has arrived along with the crocus and the daffodils, the sweet woodruff and forsythia. It’s arrived along with the balmy breezes and the occasional rumble of thunder.

I’m wondering if there’s a connection between the two, the virus and the early spring, and have decided that only in the most general, humans-messing-things-up kind of way. That and how they both heighten the disjointedness I’m feeling these days, a sense that the world is out of kilter.

Still, the one can be a balm for the other. Pulling into my driveway last night, I glimpsed the blossoms that popped during the 70-degree day and felt all tingly and alive again. Yes, I still rushed in to wash my hands — but then I rushed back out again to snap this photo.

Almost-Spring

Almost-Spring

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To say there are signs of spring on this first day of March is to be redundant. We’ve had signs of spring since January. Better to say there is a freshness in the air, a whiff of change. It’s not as cold as yesterday, and the breeze that’s blowing is warmer.

We’re only a week away from the time change, and the light is racing toward equilibrium.  Though we’ve barely had winter, we are inching toward spring.

I remember a time when I would have thought this cheating, would have felt we hadn’t paid our dues and needed one good blizzard to set us right. I don’t feel this way anymore. If we can sneak by without a polar vortex or “snowpocalypse” so much the better.

It’s almost-spring, a season of its own this year with snowdrops blooming in January and daffodils in February. When there’s almost-spring … there’s not much of winter.

February Flowers

February Flowers

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I photographed these daffodils on February 7. They were sheltered by a brick wall and no doubt blooming early because of it. But yesterday, I noticed that my own daffodil shoots are plumped with buds — and they’re not sheltered at all.

The winter jasmine has been out since January,  the early spring buttercups for at least two weeks and I just spied a Lenten rose. I wrote about snowdrops a while ago; they’ve been blooming almost a month now.


If spring continues unabated we’ll have a three-month-long procession of bloom, starting with the shyest white crocus and leading up to the gaudiest pink Kwanzan cherry. It’s the other side of global warming — an early spring. And right now, I’m feeling grateful for it. 
Acoustic

Acoustic

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How to catalog the sounds of the walk I took this morning? The crunch of stiffened grass, the swish of my parka as I strolled through the chill. The pounding of my feet on frozen ground.

It’s been for the most part a warm, gray, sodden winter. But today it’s blue skies and brisk air.

Most of all, it’s the music of the a frosty morning.

Dearest Freshness

Dearest Freshness

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I noticed yesterday morning that the witch hazel had begun to bloom, and by mid-afternoon I caught a glimpse of two male cardinals in the tree. Of all the perches they could choose, they picked the ones closest to spring.

By the time I trained my camera on them, one had flown away. The symmetry of the shot was gone. But you can get a taste of it here.

There’s the splash of yellow flowers amidst gray limbs; the dab of red from the bird. It was a hopeful scene on a solemn day, a sign there is a “dearest freshness deep down things,” as Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote.  I’m clinging to it now.

Early Spring?

Early Spring?

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With all the excitement over Palindrome Day (!) yesterday, I forgot to check in with Punxutawney Phil. I just looked and learned that, not surprisingly, he predicts an early spring.

The impatient buds on the witch hazel and the two-inch daffodil shoots have brought me to much the same conclusion. We’ve barely had any snow this year — not that I’m complaining. I will be perfectly happy with “winter lite.”

An earlier spring gives me more chances to amble the paved paths and trails, more opportunities to hoof it up Wilson Avenue through Arlington on the way home from work. An earlier spring means more joy all around.

Which is why I won’t say anything more about it. Don’t want to tempt fate …

Gibbet Hill

Gibbet Hill

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Many years ago I lived across from a small hill in Massachusetts. Gibbet Hill, it’s called, a great New England name with character and more than a whiff of dastardly deeds. Men were once hung there, according to local legend.

But the hill was for me a great source of inspiration and beauty, especially in the winter. In the summer the hill was obscured by tall trees and a tangle of underbrush along the road. But in the fall it revealed itself like a puzzle in reverse, each tumbling leaf making room for a view of the slope beyond.

It was more than just a scene. It was the promise of winter wisdom buried beneath the snow drifts. It was earth, tree and sky — all stripped down to their barest and most essential, the outline of life laid open to all.

I haven’t lived near it in decades but the hill is clear in my mind’s eye. It has come to stand for the beauty of winter and all the lessons it holds.

(Photo: Gibbet Hill Grill. It’s not winter, but it’s the hill I remember.)

Snowdrops

Snowdrops

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From the looks of it they’ve been blooming over a week now, these shy white flowers, though I just noticed them today. They’re tucked away in a quiet corner of the common land at the end of the street.

The snowdrop is such a gracious flower, with its slender stem and paper white blossoms. When in full bloom the little flowers hang their heads ever so slightly — perhaps a wise move. To call too much attention to themselves this early in the season would be to risk retribution: snow that would bury them. But from the look of the forecast all they’ll have to endure is a little bit of rain.

Not that I keep a close count, but I believe this is the earliest I’ve ever seen snowdrops. They’re in good company, though. Yesterday, I saw the first robins of the season, too.