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Category: seasons

Refilled

Refilled

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Last night, a stroll through the spring twilight. The street was quiet; only a few last-minute mulchers still covering their garden beds. (Tonight we will be covering tender plants against the predicted freeze.) To the west, the sky was streaks of brightness and a smudged contrail. To the east, a gathering darkness. In every direction, a softness born of moist soil and budding trees.

Tulips are up, dogwood is blooming and Bradford pears waning. The Kwanzan cherry in our front yard has erupted with its double pink blossoms like big greedy fists.

What was stark and monochromatic has become pliable and pastel. I left an empty vessel, and with every step I was refilled.

Left Behind

Left Behind

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A dawn chorus draws me outside. Bird song, crow caw, the rat-a-tat-tat of the woodpecker. I walk without earphones, content with the music of the morning.

On my way I spot a herd of deer. Three leap across the road in front of me, but with that finally honed sense of suburban wildlife presence, I have a feeling there are more. And soon I spot another herd, five or six of the little guys, grazing on new plants and leaves.

As the two groups merge and bound into the woods, I spot one little fellow who’s been left behind. Forlorn and nervous, he paws the ground with his small hoof. I realize suddenly that I’m the one who’s cut him off from his kin, that he can’t get to the others because I stand in his way.

I pick up my pace so he can catch up with the others. So that I no longer have to see him surrounded by basketball hoops and mulch bags, a creature as out of place as I am.

Leaves Beginning

Leaves Beginning

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As spring proceeds at warp speed I strain to catch the hedge in front of my office as it erupts with new growth. I’ve written about this hedge before, about the moment in its unfolding when the pink of the bud and the green of the leaf are in equipoise.

This year it caught me by surprise, but I’m glad I noticed. It’s important to see the hedge at its beginning, to travel the journey of the growing season together. To be able to say, I knew those leaves when they were born; heck, I knew them even before they were born.

They are tender at this point in their emergence, with all their young leaf life before them. Later on they will undoubtedly be hot and tired and weary of being green. If only they could remember how they look now, the rosy splendor of their emergence. That’s why I look and linger. I’ll remember it for them.

Once Again

Once Again

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The cherry trees blossom on their schedule, not on ours. So you rush to them after work, even if it’s cloudy and threatening rain, even if you know there will be a crush of people there.

Maybe, in fact, it’s because of the people. Their faces as careworn and hopeful as last year, their picnic baskets and cameras in tow. They are here, as I am, for renewal.

Daffodils in February

Daffodils in February

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Someone I know is about to travel to a faraway country. It will be cold there, she said, so she’s taking lots of warm clothes.

For a minute this confused me. Warm clothes? Winter? I had almost forgotten them.

Yesterday our daffodils finally bloomed. Finally is a funny word to use about spring at the end of February. But the buds have been full to bursting for a couple of weeks now. So “finally” is what it feels like.

I want to protect these early flowers, the frost-nipped tulip tree, the shy, early-blooming cherry. But all I can do is watch and hope. The daffodils are sturdy, though, so I have more confidence in them. Which also means more joy.

No Longer Noticing

No Longer Noticing

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On a walk to my car from Metro the other day I noticed how I was no longer noticing the early spring. As if it were normal to see buttercups and dandelions in February. As if the balmy air was to be expected.

Winter has no time for us this year, and I’m glad of it. We’re not emerging from a dark tunnel of cold and snow.

In the past, a mild winter has felt like cheating. Not this year. I’m glad of the warmth and greenery — even though I know we will pay for it with a hot summer.

But for now the year is a circle, not a spiral. We are walking the high road.

Photo: ontariowildflower.com

Hollowed Out

Hollowed Out

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It was about 20 degrees this morning when I went for my walk.For an hour I took paths I hadn’t taken in years, some never at all. There were hills and bridges, slight dips and a bounty of backyards to overlook and enjoy.

At the end I tried a shortcut that I thought would bring me out on the main road. It lead, instead, to a tall fence I couldn’t scale. So I retraced my steps at a run to return to the parking lot where I’d left the car. I was tired by the end.

Along the way the ground crackled beneath my feet as the frozen earth resisted my steps. There was a feeling of renewal in the cold, of being hollowed out and made whole again by it.

Beating the Cold

Beating the Cold

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When temperatures hit the teens, running is better than walking. This morning I skittered to my office, shortening the seven-minute stroll to less than five. The sun wasn’t up yet and a dreary light filled the void. Cars belched clouds of visible exhaust and the few commuters I passed kept their heads burrowed in their scarves.

I tried to keep it loose but when I’m cold my shoulders bunch and my grip tightens. I cinch in my coat, turn up my collar and dash down the sidewalk. This is not the way to deal with winter, I know. It’s easier when you relax. But today I’m moving quickly, still trying to beat the cold by moving through it as fast as possible.

Hitching a Ride

Hitching a Ride

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Winter came in with a vengeance last night. I didn’t feel it as much as I heard it. It hitched a ride on a wild west wind and galloped into our neighborhood in the middle of the night. It roared and growled, set the bamboo a rat-tat-tatting against the house and drove the wind chimes into overdrive.

It’s Arctic air, the weather folks say. I say it’s Winter and it’s angry, ready to take back its time. Enough of this balmy rain, this blooming-time air. This is the real thing. It keeps us inside and drives newly landed birds deep into thickets, where they fluff themselves up to wait it out.

I wait it out, too. Maybe I’ll walk at noontime, when the sun has some power over the cold and the wind has subsided, even a little.

Waiting Time

Waiting Time

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One of my favorite Christmas carols is actually an Advent hymn, “O Come O Come Emmanuel.” Every time I hear it this season I wonder (even as I sing along) why I like it. Certainly not because of its sunny key and tone. It’s slow, solemn and in a minor key.

But there is something noble and ancient and timeless about it. The very essence of Advent, of waiting. In it I hear the echo of the human voice through the centuries, processing down the stone aisle of a medieval cathedral. In it I hear the sighs of longing and of patience.

Advent is often overlooked in the pre-Christmas rush to buy, wrap, mail and decorate. But I’ve always found it a soothing season, one of hopeful waiting and pleasant anticipation. In a way, I don’t want it to end.