The flowers have broken ground

I happened to look down, and there they were.

 

The daffodils, tulips and hyacinths along the front wall of my house have broken ground and are declaring to the world that life goes on.

 

They’re only about an inch tall, but they have shown year after year that, once they’re above ground, there’s no stopping them.  The leaves have seen sunlight and are using chlorophyll to change solar rays into food, so as certainly as winter will become spring, they will continue to grow. A hard frost may freeze their tops, but the stored energy that allowed them to send up the leaves will allow them to keep coming. A blanket of snow is only a few hours of muted sunlight to them. Soon the new leaves will be reminding the grass what a rich and beautiful color green is, and all the other fora will be following their example.

 

I cannot call myself a gardener, but I am someone who appreciates the message of abundance and resilience wrapped inside a seed.

 

I recognize that science can list the processes which allow a tiny, inert piece of matter to transform into a seedling and then a plant. But in the deepest sense, science cannot explain it. I do not understand how anyone who has experienced the renewal and revival of spring could believe this long-sustained wonder came about by chance.

 

Before you begin to worry for me, I know it’s only the second week in March. I know March is classified as the “snowiest” month, and I know the freezing temperatures are not all behind us.

 

But a small gathering of robins hopped across my yard recently, and I heard the song of a red-winged blackbird this morning.

 

As my emerging tulips, daffodils and hyacinths proclaim, the basement of winter is behind us and we are climbing the stairs into spring. The frost is coming out of the ground, the shallow edges of the lakes are thawing, the temperatures across time are trending upward.

 

No wonder cultures from earlier times crafted myths to explain the seasons and their differing features–all these changes really do feel like an awakening, or a reunion, or like finding something valuable that had been misplaced.

 

For me, the message sent by my emerging spring bulbs is, “See? We came back.”

 

And even though my answer is, “I always knew you would,” I can’t help also thinking, “I’m glad you reminded me.”