She's Here!
Spring has arrived on our doorstep, her suitcases bulging with 70-degree days, the faint shrill of tiny peepers in the swampy depressions of the woods, steady soothing rains and the occasional thunderstorm with its strobe light lightning. Bonus this past week was a total lunar eclipse that generously shared the night sky with an applause-worthy meteor shower (those middle if the night trips to the bathroom downstairs do have their merits). Yesterday, I saw a house sparrow tugging at a piece of straw five times her length, trying to get airborne with it to build the base of her summer home. I offered to break it into smaller pieces for her but she declined. The first shoots of our beloved snowdrops and crocuses are bravely above ground, unaware that the weather-guessers are predicting a few more hard frosts before we can comfortably trudge outside barefooted and unfettered. I’m not worried. They know what they’re doing (the snowdrops, not the weather-guessers).
In a burst of “it’s almost-spring” antsy-pants-ness, I cleared the remaining dead stalks and last year’s tomato vines from the raised beds before continuing down the path to the woods, imagining the all-blue and red Pontiac potatoes we’d plant later this week along with radishes, chard, kale and spinach that will fill our salad bowls until the lettuces start sprouting. The garlic we nestled in the ground last October got the party started a couple weeks ago, along with a narrow bed dedicated entirely to my grandfather’s tulips from the Netherlands. In the far end of our overlarge and warm bathroom, we’ll start the tomatoes, cabbage, seashell cosmos, snap peas, dragon’s tongue beans and some Mexican sour gherkins that will be no bigger than my thumb when we harvest them. Oh, and bell peppers in all colors—green, yellow, red, orange and purple (do I have to go to work tomorrow?).
I am overly ready for the season of laundry on the line, hearing aids on the morning walks to catch every bird call and deer snort, turning compost by the shovelful, sitting atop the zero-turn mower for those luscious six-hour stretches of meditative grass cutting and eating sun-warmed pink bumblebee cherry tomatoes right off the vine. The weeds will bring us to our knees, we’ll give mammoth sunflowers a try in a loving nod to our sisters and brothers in Ukraine and the chickens will welcome another six layers to the flock so we can help feed our family, neighbors and coworkers. I don’t know how things work in your soul, but planting and tending to life is my best insurance against the despair and division that currently threatens to poison us once and for all. A tiny seed that will give us ground cherries in August says otherwise. My hope is in her. Unreservedly.
As if all that over-the-top unstoppable new life jubilation isn’t enough, I also got to hold my great-niece for the first time last Sunday. Eleanor arrived on Valentine’s Day just before her mother’s birthday and has no idea how much joy she brought with her on her passage from the womb into her parents’ tired and excited arms. She is wiggly and sweet, a sponge soaking up the sights and sounds around her and I think I may not see my sister Peggy for the next seven years at least. Her first grandchild has a claim on her heart and her spare time; I hold no grudges for such bliss. It’s just more life in a cute little package to keep us focused on what matters and how we can be helpful. Isn’t that what we’re here to do, after all? Tend to life, give our undivided attention to the Important Things and lend a hand (or a dozen eggs or a basket of freshly-picked salad ingredients).
When spring shows up with all of her most welcome baggage, it’s a good idea to make room wherever you can find it. She doesn’t take “no” for an answer, just keeps pushing life forward and upward and smart folks hang on for the ride.
