Spring rhapsody

It’s easy for me to gush about spring. As mentioned before, it might have something to do with my birthday. Celebrating your personal holiday at the same time winter grey morphs into budding green across hillsides is not something to be trivialized. I find this season change a well grounded source of grace that I still marvel at in this, my sixtieth year of witnessing it.

Power is afoot out there.

This year’s considered miracles:

So much is going on. The columbine has reseeded itself plentiful, now covering over one third of the front flowerbed. Hosta have awakened in their new home for the first spring following last year’s major transplant. They seem healthy and strong with room to spread their legs. Daffodils are gone, though I did see one yellow survivor yet this morning, head held high into the sun. A few natural dutchmen’s britches remain. A few mertensia survived their journey into new soil last spring. Good for them. Good for them all.

The pond was drained, cleaned, and refilled today, giving pause to the myriad larvae observed swimming there last night. The aerator is pumping again, hopefully keeping life and a semblance of comfort in balance. The birdbath dripper is back in action, too, splashing water onto a liberated Lake MacDonald rock that intends to assist honey bees and their kin to a sweet sip. Before today’s rock installation, I found one dead bee floating. Those kids had a hard enough time this winter, losing between 50 and 70% of their communities. Take a more comfortable seat at this water bar, my friends!

When we departed for Denver a couple of weeks ago, I wondered which floral openings would be most dynamic upon our return. On the road, it was redbud. Hands down.

But when we turned down our street, the pink dogwood just jumped out at us. Goodness. This critter absolutely amazes me. I’ve transplanted a few dogwoods just where they want to be -- forest floor, well drained, moderate sun -- and all have perished. This one gets full sun and has to have a portion of its roots under the driveway. Too much sun, not enough water -- and it does just great. Such a competitor!

Second most impressive upon our return, I would say, are the ferns. Don’t know their exact name, but they have migrated around the corner of the back of the house over the last fifteen years. I’ve cut back lots of bushes to give them more room. I wasn’t even thinking of them before I left. When I got home, less than two weeks later, they were up 18 inches. Such tenacity!

Birds have been beautiful, too. Nothing too special. I can’t say I saw a wood thrush at the birdbath lately. Still, there’s plenty of cardinal song outside our windows. Call. Response. Family responsibility. And titmouse. And Carolina wren. Red bellied woodpecker. American crow. Chickadee-dee-dee.

All Earthly travelers. All Nature’s people. All singing about another coming alive -- singing another life cycle -- another turn on the mandala.

But this rotation they will experience like no other. This time is not for the ancestors. It is not for those who come next. It is about here and now. These blossoms. These birds. These leaves. These flying and rooted and living things.

It is their breath. It is their lives. It is their turn. As a fellow traveler, I wish them well.

Today’s elder idea:

Nap on a granite slab

half in shade, you can never hear enough

sound of wind in the pines

Gary Snyder

from Danger on Peaks (2004)