I get geeked out for spring.
I mean I become a full-on fan girl for everything green and growing.
I can shriek as loudly as my students at a One Direction concert when I walk into a well-stocked nursery.
Yeah, it’s kinda sad.
Yesterday afternoon, I took Tiger for a walk around the neighborhood and enjoyed the early spring bulbs just beginning to show their faces after the late and overly harsh winter storms we endured this year. My own yard is late to the party; the ample shade means that it takes just a little longer for everything to grow and bloom.
So I was thrilled when I returned home from the walk to notice the small purple blooms on my leaf litter-covered speedwell. The sight is especially welcome after a week consumed by loss.
My planting beds are peppered with green stalks bursting with daffodils ready to bloom. I remember planting those bare, dry lifeless roots in the cold soil last fall. Even though I’ve planted fall bulbs many times, it’s always an exercise in faith. In my region, the bulbs go into the ground just as the warm weather annuals ave gone from bloom to blackened and the perennials are shriveled and brown. It’s a time of death in the garden. And yet I still plant those hard little brown nubs, trusting that life will sprout again.
And it always does.
In the autumns of life, it’s important to plant your bulbs – those roots and beginnings of hope and new life. It is an exercise of faith as you trust that those small beginnings will lead to flowers later. Yet, with patience and nurturing, the blooms always come.