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Category: seasons

The Volunteer

The Volunteer

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Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough.

I don’t have many lines of poetry at my fingertips, but for some reason, I have these by A. E. Housman. Today, I’m thinking about — and looking at — the pale pink weeping cherry in the backyard.

It wasn’t planted, and I wasn’t even aware of it until we almost lost it in the great tree debacle of 2018. But it must have been there, growing slowly and a bit crookedly, trying to reach the light through a thick canopy.  

But now the yard is open, tree coverage is sparse, and the delicate plants, including this earnest volunteer, have a chance to shine. 

Such is the life cycle of a forest, even when the forest is in a backyard.

(This volunteer may be kin to another I wrote about several years ago.)

Springing Ahead?

Springing Ahead?

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Today is our first full day of astronomical spring, though the chilly morning temps make it feel more like winter. We in the mid-Atlantic have been spoiled this year, with snowdrops blooming in January and daffodils in February. It’s been a non-winter. 

Now that we have late light, too, I feel a bit like Punxsutawney Phil, dragged out of his burrow only to dip back in because the sun’s too bright. These late-light evenings, as much as they thrill, can seem like too much too soon. 

There’s a part of me that still craves the lamplit afternoon, the cozy cocooning feel you have in winter, a pot of soup bubbling on the stove, no outside chores calling my name to add to the inside chores that are always with me. 

In other words, winter gives me a pass of sorts. And now … that pass is over. 

Clumping

Clumping

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As we move ahead into this strangely early spring, I’m enjoying the flowers that have bloomed and noticing a feature about them that I may not  have fully appreciated before … and that is clumping. 

There are clumps of Lenten roses, clumps of daffodils and clumps of snowdrops. It’s just the way they grow and spread, I know. But the impression is one of abundance and joy.

It seems that flowers, like humans, enjoy the company of their kind. 

Strings Attached

Strings Attached

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This is not a complaint, so I hope the weather gods don’t take it as one. But the human body is more comfortable when it stays in one temperature range for a season. When it’s 70 degrees one day and 40 the next, it does something to a body. In short, it makes it shiver, then roast, then shiver again.

Today the high is forecast to be 80 degrees. This is February 23, I’ll point out. Daffodils are blooming. Snowdrops and hellebores have been out for weeks. By Saturday we may have snow.

Perhaps this is just a cycle, a La Niña phenomenon. But  unseasonable winter warmth — and these crazy yo-yo cycles, too — now carry with them a tinge of guilt and fear. In their balminess are denuded forests,  smoke clouds, flooded homes, loss. 

I love warm weather. But not with these strings attached. 

(This photo was taken in Washington, D.C., on January 24, 2023.)

Too Soon!

Too Soon!

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Warm winters are always a treat, and so far we seem to be in for one. But I worry when I spot green shoots pushing through the soil or spy the creamy center of a Lenten rose already taking shape amidst the brown leaves from last fall’s raking. 

Lenten roses are some of the earliest plants in the garden. But January 12th? 

Go back to sleep, I tell the plant, treating it like a still-drowsy baby rising too soon from a nap. Slumber on for a few more weeks, until we know the world is safe for you. 

Strange But True

Strange But True

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It’s been in the 60s these past few days, a welcome blast of warmth that almost makes up for late December’s frigid temperatures. But it’s also a little strange, as unseasonable weather tends to be. 

The holly berries look out of place in this balmy air, as do the Christmas lights still decorating houses up and down the street. 

This time last year an unexpectedly heavy snow blanketed the region, shut down Interstate 95 and left motorists stranded overnight in their cars. Today, it’s hard to imagine that. 

But this is weather in the age of climate change. 

(A photo from last year’s snow storm.)

Flash Freeze

Flash Freeze

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At this hour the rain is still falling, not freezing, and there is even a softness to the air. But soon, perhaps within minutes, the winds will rise and the bomb cyclone will strike these parts.

The temperature will plummet, the rain will freeze, and at sunset we will be in the single digits. Roads and sidewalks will grow slick. The ground will harden. Nature will lose her diadem.

It’s winter, so we expect ice and cold, but not this much, please. A light fluffy snow would be just fine. 

Every Minute Counts

Every Minute Counts

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It’s a cold, rainy morning days away from the winter solstice. But last week I heard a radio announcer explain that, at least when it comes to sunsets, we’re already bouncing back. 

I just checked a daylight chart for Virginia … and it’s true. Starting last week we held steady with a 4:18 sunset, and last night, for the first time since midsummer, we added a minute to the evening end of the day. 

This tiny gain is still offset by the ever-later sunrises (7:51 this morning), but this time of year, every minute counts.

The Scent of Cold

The Scent of Cold

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The winter world is scrubbed clean, scoured by wind and weather to reveal pockmarked roads and blown-grass fields. It is silent, but for the drone of a distant leaf blower.

It carries with it a whiff of cold, not the metallic taste of snow but something earthier and more elemental. Perhaps it is the absence of scent — but I think not. It’s more like the presence of an aroma I’ve known since I was a child. 

Inhaling it prompts a near-involuntary physical reactions, a tensing of the muscles. Yesterday as I walked, I worked to keep my shoulders from bunching up against the chill, concentrating instead on the beauty of the afternoon. 

It worked … most of the time.

Waiting

Waiting

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A friend of mine wrote a one-act play about Advent called “Wait — It’s a Musical.” I always liked the title, the play on the word “wait.” I’m thinking of that play and that title today, on the first Sunday of the liturgical year. 

Every year the readings and sermons remind us that this is the season of watchful waiting, of calm preparation. Every year, this message must compete with tinsel and glitter and Mariah Carey belting out “All I Want for Christmas is You.” 

So I try, and somewhat succeed … for a week or two. But inevitably I’m pulled into the Christmas orbit. The shopping, the baking, the watching of holiday movies, one of which features, yes, “All I Want for Christmas is You.”

On an overcast November morning, it’s easy to feel the ancient longing, to hear the plainsong chant. But in a week or two, all bets will be off.