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Category: spring

“Open Door Policy”

“Open Door Policy”

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The term sounds vaguely familiar, like something I learned long ago, and a quick search tells me that it was a system of equal trade and investment in China in the first half of the 20th century. 

I chose the title with another thought in mind: the way it feels to leave the front door open on a perfect June afternoon. An open door policy made possible by a screen instead of glass, and perhaps only good for another day or two. 

So far, we’ve been able to get by without air conditioning in the house: opening and closing windows at strategic moments, gathering in the morning coolness like an arm full of crisp line-dried laundry.

They’re calling for much higher temps by week’s end, so we may have to give in and close up the house. But it’s been lovely to leave doors and windows open, to breathe in and out with the day.

A Whiff of Honeysuckle

A Whiff of Honeysuckle

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The aroma of honeysuckle is in the air, and every year I want to hold onto it, to have it close at hand so I can inhale it whenever I walk out the door. I dream of rooting a sprig of the vine, planting it, and training it to tumble over my back fence.

This year I came close to doing that, was even scouting out potential plant “donors.” Then I came to my senses. Introduce another invasive species when our yard is full of knotweed, stilt grass and bamboo? I must be crazy.

Honeysuckle is a wild thing, after all, and it’s best left where it is, mostly in the park or common land. A whiff may be all I get. But sometimes, a whiff is enough.

Rose Time

Rose Time

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The climbing rose peaked a few days ago, but the plant is still weighed heavy by blossoms, and when I sit on the deck to write the air is filled with fragrance. 

When I look out at the yard through its flowers, it’s a little like looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses.

But at some point, I must squeegee off the glass-topped table and abandon for a minute my journal or laptop to sweep up petals with the old broom I leave outside. 

What better way to enjoy the rose than by immersing myself in its detritus, still soft and pearly pink?

Taking Comfort

Taking Comfort

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What do you write about when one of your oldest, dearest friends lies full of cancer in a hospital bed? The same thing you write about when your parents are dying, when you’re sick or confused or worn out. You write about the world around you.

It’s the second day of May. Roses are budding, birds are nesting, clematis is blooming. Last night, the first hummingbird of the season made its appearance. It’s a perfect spring morning.

Not perfect for everyone, of course, but at this moment, I feel its perfection. And I take comfort in describing it, parsing it, moving it from the real world onto the page.

Witnessing

Witnessing

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Walking is witnessing, a way to be present in movement and in time. 

Yesterday’s stroll took me from the oldest part of Reston to the newest, from a community center to a commercial plaza, from a small cafe to a bustling bakery.

And all along I’m thinking spring. The dogwood, the azalea, the first green of the oaks and poplars. How lovely it is to see it unfold along familiar paths, how grateful I was to witness its unfolding.

The Bluebell Trail

The Bluebell Trail

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The Kwanzan cherries are spreading their heavy arms, wowing us, as they always do, with their big-fisted blossoms. Dogwood are playing it closer to the vest, but they’re almost peak bloom, too. 

I worried I’d missed the Virginia bluebells, but yesterday I scooted out for a late-morning hike on the Bluebell Trail that runs along the Potomac River. The flowers were primo, scattered fetchingly among the phlox and ferns with the river roaring in the distance. 

Moving through springtime beauty is one of the best ways to ingest it, to make it stick. Which is what I want to do now, to inhale the loveliness, to claim it as my own. But that, as we know, is not possible. Walking through and past the flowers reminds me that they, like all of us, are present only a short while. We make time to see them when they’re here — and then let them go.

Wood Poppies!

Wood Poppies!

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As last week’s rains were falling, the great engine of spring was whirring silently. I could see very little change out my office window, but plants were still prepping for a great leap forward. 

At first, the gold of the wood poppies blended with the yellow of the daffodils. But now the smaller flowers are coming into their own. They are filling the far backyard, the part that’s wooded and wild. They are spreading a carpet of bloom.

I just saw a fox pause among the flowers, look around and trot on.  

(The wood poppies in bloom: all that’s missing is the hammock.)

Peep Peep!

Peep Peep!

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This photo may feature baby chicks, but the peeps I’m thinking about come from small frogs, spring peepers.

The racket comes from males trying to attract females (which accounts for much of the racket in the animal world this time of year), and it can grow quite loud along a path I walk that edges a wetland. 

I was glad to hear it yesterday, though. I’d been listening for spring peepers since I arrived home but had missed the distinctive, high-pitched sound. 

Now the little critters have spoken: spring is here to stay. 

A Prediction

A Prediction

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So we have finally come to the end of January, the longest month. I’m convinced it has at least 40 days. No wait, that’s Lent, and it will be arriving soon enough. 

But today we’re in the clear. It’s February 2, and the groundhog has predicted an early spring. Based on the blooming snowdrops and hellebores, on the inch-long daffodil shoots in the front yard and the faint fuzz of bloom on the witch hazel tree in back, I’d say the groundhog’s prediction may be true. 

According to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association, though, the rodent has been right only 40 percent of the time. So I won’t pack away the hats, gloves and wool sweaters just yet. I won’t wish him wrong, either.

Maybe May

Maybe May

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It’s May Day, the first day of a glorious month, not a holiday in this country but in many others. I used to tell my daughters, if you’re looking for a lovely time of year to be married, the beginning of May is that time. They were married in April, September and December.  So much for motherly advice. 

But what’s interesting about time and weather patterns is that I wouldn’t say this today. A decade or so ago, early May was a reliably beautiful time of year, prime azalea season, iris yet to pop, plenty of color amidst the green. These days it’s unsettled. We might have such a May 1, but more than likely we won’t. This year’s unseasonably warm winter means it’s looking decidedly summery, though it’s quite chilly, an odd combination, to say the least.

We talk a lot about climate change with its serious implications for life on this planet. But shifts in longtime patterns of growth and maturity, planting and harvesting, affect us more subtly too. They prey on our spirits and mess with our minds. 

(An azalea in its prime … on April 14, 2023.)