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Category: seasons

Ritual of the Season

Ritual of the Season

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I went to see the cherry blossoms late yesterday. I walked down 18th Street, to 17th, past the dignified though scaffolded Old Executive Office Building, across Constitution to the Mall. By that point I was swept along with the throng. On we moved, past the Washington Monument and the World War II Memorial, its fountains flying, to our destination, the cherry trees of the Tidal Basin. I try to visit every year, even when it’s cold, even though it’s crowded, even if I don’t have time. This year’s blossoming coincides with Easter and with the first truly convincing days of spring. There were old folks and babies, screaming toddlers and young couples. Walking the path I think about the circularity of seasons and the circularity of life. I’ve seen the cherry blossoms with my husband, my parents, my sister, my children (when they were those screaming toddlers) and other family and friends. This year I saw them alone. I snapped pictures and savored the scene. At one point a mild breeze blew, caught some petals and sprinkled them over the crowd. Now it isn’t snow that’s falling, it’s cherry blossom petals. The long winter is over.

Freeze Frame

Freeze Frame

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Before the hedge can grow the bud must disappear, must burst open and give up its life for the leaf. But before that happens there is a moment of equilibrium, just a few days in the spring when the pink of the bud and the green of the leaf are in perfect balance. At that moment, the hedge doesn’t look at all as it will this summer, dark green and shaggy. It is, instead, the frosting on a birthday cake or a young girl’s party dress. That is the moment I was trying to capture in this picture. It’s not quite there. It lacks the delicacy of the plant in person, the slight chill in the air, the sound of the birds fluttering about it.

If it turns cold, this equipoise may last till next week. But I’m not counting on it. Like so much beauty, it’s momentary. If you don’t look closely, you’ll miss it entirely.

Spring Peepers

Spring Peepers

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I heard them last night on my first after-dinner walk of the spring. I ripped off my headphones and ran a few feet, straining to make sure I wasn’t mistaken, that the sound I heard was really spring peepers. March 17 seems early for the little guys, especially after the winter we’ve had, but I guess the mild weather has coaxed them from hibernation.

The sound was unmistakable; it is the first song of spring, of warm days and cold nights, of still water and marshy lowlands. It seems ages since I heard the last crickets of fall chirping ever more slowly in the chill autumn air. We’ve had five months of quiet winter evenings since then. Now, with the peepers, nights are full of sound again.

March

March

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I passed a neighbor on my walk yesterday. “Now instead of shoveling snow, I’m shoveling gravel,” he said with a shrug. Last month, overly enthusiastic plows managed to gouge out part of the crushed-rock path that runs alongside the main road in our neighborhood and throw it in people’s yards. Now the snow is melting, but the gravel isn’t.

With apologies to those with March birthdays, this has never been my favorite month. When I lived in Chicago, March meant cold rain. When I lived in New England, March meant mud. Since we’ve lived in Virginia, my opinion of March has improved considerably. You can usually count on yellow daffodils, bright bursts of forsythia, even cherry blossoms. But this is at the end of the month, not the beginning. What we have now are bruised skies, blustery winds, snow that’s seen better days. March is a good month for going to the dentist, for cleaning out closets, for tackling chores that aren’t much fun.

When Suzanne was little, she received a pair of slippers for Christmas. Weeks went by and she never put them on. “When are you going to wear your slippers,” I asked one day, hoping she might finally confess what I suspected, that she didn’t much like them. She thought for moment, put a finger on her cheek, and said, “March!”

My point, exactly.

Nature’s First Green

Nature’s First Green

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“Nature’s first green is gold, its hardest hue to hold,” wrote Robert Frost. He meant that it is precious and fleeting. But it is literally true, too. Often the first green of spring is closer to yellow in color.

I thought of this today as I stepped out back and noticed that while we were watching the snow banks dwindle, the old miracle of spring was starting to unfold amidst the whiteness. It is the witch hazel tree, the earliest harbinger of winter’s end. It often surprises me in February like this, blooming long before I expect it to.

Why don’t I look for it? Because it is the first, I guess, and because at a certain point in winter spring does not seem possible. Warm breezes and green trees seem like a dream, like a life we once lived but can live no more. The witch hazel tree reminds me otherwise.