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Category: seasons

One Hour

One Hour

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One hour is a pebble in the shoe, the insignificant that will not be silenced. Put in perspective it is nothing, this shift of time. With all the great world’s spinning, how could it be important? It is only a matter of accounting, right? A shift from one column to another.

But so exquisitely tuned are we, so finely adapted to familiar segments of darkness and light, that one hour brings a yelp of pain or a cry of joy. Sandpaper-eyed mornings, loose-limbed evenings. A stark jump to the cold days of early spring.

The black ice on the driveway and the snow on the deck makes it hard to take this hour seriously. This hour will not catapult us to spring. It is the alarm set too early, tugging us to ragged wakefulness in the middle of the night.

Promise of Greening

Promise of Greening

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Day before yesterday I stole an hour at lunchtime to walk the Cross-County Trail. I hadn’t been on it in months. This was the stretch closest to my house, less than 10 minutes away. I wasn’t sure it would be cleared of ice, and when it was, my feet flew!

The snow was piled high beside the path and rivulets of meltwater ran across the pavement. The sun was warm on my face and the Chieftains loud in my ears. From time to time a bird call or two broke through the music.

I wasn’t the only one out. There were dog walkers and solo wanderers and a group of three that took up the whole path.

“Passing on the left,” said a runner as he sped past by. “It’s good to be out today, isn’t it?” And it was. A hint of spring in the air and in our steps. The greening well hidden — but the promise of it all around us.

To Lengthen

To Lengthen

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As the first week of Lent draws to a close I remind myself — as I do always this time of year — that the word “Lent” comes from the Angle-Saxon word “to lengthen.”

Days are growing longer. This is not only a season of spiritual renewal but of natural renewal, too. 

I need this reminder. The witch hazel, earliest harbinger of winter’s end — whose late February blooming (pictured in Monday’s post) is usually a surprise — is as brittle and dead-leafed as it was a month ago. If the crocuses and daffodils are stirring to life I wouldn’t know it — they’re buried under half a foot or more of crusty snow.

But the forsythia branches have a yellow glow about them, a fullness. The late winter sun feels warm on the skin. And up high the tree buds are swelling.

Winter White

Winter White

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A light snow, easily cleared, meant a long walk yesterday — and a chance to contemplate how much better winter looks when it’s wearing white.

There is a time in late November when bleakness is becoming — bare trees, barren fields, a monochromatic palette. A soothing contrast to summer greens and autumn golds.

But by mid-February, bleakness is boring. The eye craves contrast, softness. It looks for shelter, for cover.

In the language of fashion, winter white is that which is worn after Labor Day — creams and oysters and parchments. But in the language of weather, winter white is the mantle only snow can bring. And finally, it’s here.

Step Lively

Step Lively

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When bitter winds howl in from the west, when temperatures dip into the teens, when the sidewalk harbors little patches of black ice and there’s a quarter-mile of pavement between me and the next warm building, this is what I do. Step lively.

It’s what some Metro conductors suggest. “Step lively,” they say. “Doors closing.”

It’s what race-walkers do, with a bounce in their gait and a swivel of their hips.

Step lively, with its whiff of the nautical, its sprightliness and energy and pep.

Step lively. It’s more hop than saunter, more snap than sizzle. It’s quaint and practical and fun.

Step lively. It’s a good way to get through winter.

Almost Solstice

Almost Solstice

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Only hours from the shortest day, I leave the house in lessening darkness. A few houses are still lit  from last night, a subtle defiance. Above it all a crescent moon, purer than the others, though just reflection.

Of course we need the light, will take it any way we get it, are drawn to flames, fires, a faraway porch bulb in the rain.

I catch myself dreaming of summer, of days long enough to waste an hour. Now every minute is precious as we tick down inexorably to the end.  

The Slow Season

The Slow Season

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The cars were glazed with ice this morning, and the pavement was suspiciously shiny. I crept up to the Metro Parking Garage leaving lots of follow room between my car and the cars in front of me.

A winter pace is upon us. I slow down on bridges and ramps, which — we’re always told — freeze first. (Because, of course, they do.) I walk self-consciously, noticing each footfall, the breaks in pavement, the gleaming patches where ice might lurk.

Winter does not promote speeding — or fast movement of any kind. Instead, it slows and mutes us, makes us notice what is right at hand. It is, in that way, a steadying, calming time.

Begonias: The Sequel

Begonias: The Sequel

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Were the begonias reading my blog? If so, not anymore. On Sunday morning, less than 24 hours after I wrote about their bravery and their continued existence, they finally succumbed to the low night temperatures.

I knew their time was up when I wrote about them, am surprised they lasted this long. It’s the life of an annual, as brief as the autumn leaves that I notice are so much more a part of this photograph than they seemed to be when I snapped the shot.

We know what happens next. In a few days or weeks I’ll rip out the old plants and let the soil rest until spring.

A few late roses are clinging to life, but for the most part the growing season is over. The begonias lasted from late May through mid-November —not a bad run.

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween!

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The candy is hidden so there will be some left for tonight. There’s a plump pumpkin for carving. And the yard is covered in crisp brown leaves.

I took this photograph at a pumpkin patch Suzanne and I visited three years ago. I remember even then the preciousness of time with her. (Peace Corps was already in her plans.) The preciousness of that time, telescoped as it was then, and especially as it is now during her leave, is just a compressed version of all the precious times we spend with those we love.

The ripe fruits of autumn remind me how important it is to store up those times. Store them up as a plant does, capturing sunlight, soil and rain.

 

Autumn Planting

Autumn Planting

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There’s a delicious irony in autumn planting, a slap in the face to fall. All around me leaves are yellowing, dying, flaming out, and here I am plying the soil, ripping out the summer flowers, putting fall ones in their place.

I chose mums and ornamental cabbage, hearty plants that can bear a hard freeze and stff wind. I forgo the pretty pansies with their thin stems and hopeful faces.

Planting in the fall is a vote for life. It’s thumbing my nose at winter, saying (if only to myself) maybe it won’t be as bad this year.