We wanted to prepare a feast on the spring equinox to mark the final cold breath of winter. We hadn’t planned a meal or shopped for it, our kids were sick, and with a looming snowstorm (that resulted in 2-3 inches of snow on our garden), the weather was decidedly not spring-like on the first day of spring.
We skipped the dinner and said, “We’ll do it this weekend.”
As I wrote yesterday, this weekend brought yet another dumping, this one three times deeper than the first-day-of-spring snow.
Snow falling on Saturday, March 24Kitty in the window, watching for birds
This morning, the sun rose over a scene out of a Christmas card. The sky was clear, the trees and rooftops coated in piles of heavy snow.
Spring pastels: pink sunrise over snowDrooping dogwoods and bright morning sun on snowBack garden under snowOak and spruces (?) under sticky snow
With the bright sun, the morning FWUMP of piles of snow avalanching from trees, the drip drip drip of snowmelt, and the gorgeous blue sky, we’ll have our spring celebration today.
I made seed muffins this morning, filled with walnuts, sliced almonds, flax seeds, toasted sunflower seeds, and poppy seeds.
Spring seed muffin
I started herb and kale seeds indoors today, our daughter wrapped the front door wreath in spring green and pink ribbons, and she dipped strawberries in chocolate for dessert. My husband made bread and will grill fish. He shoveled the porch first thing this morning so it could melt all day for him to get to the grill. I made deviled eggs, a spring greens salad, and a spring pea and mint salad.
Pea and mint salad for spring
Who knows if winter is really done. I guess we’ll find out soon enough. But after yesterday’s beautiful snow, we’re celebrating as if that was the final snow, and as if spring is imminent. Maybe we can will it to come by swallowing all the seeds in the muffins, or with all this green on our table.
The sun is shining and today is warm compared to the snows of last week. It’s 6pm and I’m on the couch listening to Cat Stevens’ “Peace Train” on the record player, wondering how sore my glutes and hamstrings will be tomorrow.
My husband and I hiked today on trails about 20 minutes from our house. It felt glorious to get outside in the sunshine and walk under trees, on a dirt trail, rather than inside in my office, on my treadmill, as I’ve been doing day in and day out all this long winter. The hills didn’t necessarily feel good, but they make my gin drink that much better now that the hike is done.
It’s St. Patrick’s day, and the azaleas are probably blooming in my hometown of Savannah, Georgia. Here, the rhododendrons flower buds, incubating blossoms. The only green in the forest on St. Patty’s were baby hemlocks, soft tufts of white pine needles, the waxy oval leaves of rhododendrons, and mosses down by the creek.
As we hiked, and I walked through a patch of warm sunlight, I inhaled a deep breath to smell the air. It smelled not of dirt, not of soil, but of earth: sun-warmed stone, forest floor, and dry leaves crunched under hiking boots. A few steps later, in a chilly pocket of shade, I smelled the freshness of recently frozen earth, the metallic hint of water flowing over rocks, and the green scent of photosynthesis.
We saw a few leaf buds, but not many. The rhodies have flower buds, but they’re not plump or pink yet. Other than the temperature, the woods showed little sign that life would soon return.
It’s coming, though. Everything is about to begin.
Our daughter and I went shopping on Sunday. She wanted decorations for her room. I wanted decorations for spring. The equinox is one week away. I feel like I’ve been waiting for it forever. I’ve got pages and pages in my garden journals, regular journals, and diaries dedicated to, “OMG will spring never come?”
For the mantel, my daughter and I found a nest with speckled eggs at Pier One. I saw it when we walked in, and I kept coming back to it over and over again as we browsed the store. I love it so much. I bought it. At Michaels we bought some silk cherry blossoms for the mantel vase. Two days later I went back out for pink candles and a silk chartreuse hydrangea puff. There wasn’t enough color on the spring shelf and I desperately need green in my life right now.
Our mantel looks fresh and springlike, and it makes me both giddy and restless. The same day we decorated, we awaited a snow storm. The kids wondered all day, “Will school be closed?” I wondered, “When will the weather break so I can be warm in my garden, move all my plants, and sow my seeds?”
The storm came in the night. About four inches of snow. Luckily none of the seeds I sowed early have sprouted or they’d likely have been killed. Everything is buried under white.
The kids played in the snow with friends all day (school was closed). The space heater in my office warmed my toes and my indoor seedlings. Last night we had a blazing fire underneath the hopeful mantel of spring. And here I am, writing again about how ready I am for it to be here, as more snowflakes drift down.
11:30am. I’m at a miniature picnic table in the autumn sun and breeze at Pandapas Pond outside of Blacksburg, Virginia. My knees hit the underside of the tabletop’s planks, but the wooden bench is warm, and I don’t mind that the table is the proper height for children rather than adults.
Wind rustles leaves around me, and stems of tiny white asters sway on the other side of the table, between me and the glimmering pond. The September light is sharp and warm. Canada geese paddle on the pond’s surface, and their honks echo off the surrounding hills of the basin. Smaller birds twirrup in the trees, and insects buzz and whir.
On the grey splintered wood by my notebook is a tiny dry pine needle, the color of tobacco. It’s not long like the loblolly needles of the coastal southeast, but is a much shorter needle, maybe an inch long, like it fell from a tree in a dollhouse yard.
The sky is cornflower blue with brilliant white clouds, and when one passes over the sun, I feel the temperature drop. I’m chilly in the shadow of the cloud despite a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and brown leather boots. I want the sun to warm my face and my shoulders again.
Across the pond are a few golden trees but the hillsides are still mostly green. Brocolli mountains, our son calls them. A bush at my knee has lost its leaves, and its bare branches sparkle with red berries the size of pomegranate seeds. Asters like periwinkle stars spray the edges of the footpath around the pond, and in the clear air, I hear the crunch of a jogger’s pace on crushed gravel in the woods. When the wind settles and the leaves stop rattling, I hear the hum of bees in the wildflowers around my picnic table.
A summer green skin coats the surface of the pond at its edges. I can’t see from here whether it’s algae or lily pads. It is strange to know that in a few months the pond’s hills will be bristled with naked trees that are brown and twiggy rather than full and lush in golds and greens. The pond itself will be frozen, encrusted in white-grey ice instead of green life. The geese tell me that time is coming as they chase each other across the pond, splashing and honking and just being present here on their way to someplace warm.
The sound of winged creatures has reached a crescendo: small birds and large geese, grasshoppers and bees and cicadas have stirred each other up, twittering and honking and chirruping and buzzing, and my ears ring with a cacophony that ricochets off the water’s skin and the surrounding mountains. Within a minute they settle down though, and now I only hear the chirp of insects like summer twilight.
The wind has stilled completely and silent gnats have found me. They’re caught in my hair, coating the lenses of my glasses, creeping into the corners of my eyes. It’s time to get up and move.
I’m not very good at sitting and just being. With a pen in my hand, though, I am forced to experience my surroundings. The act of writing, the act of describing, helps me sense the world and pay attention. I don’t think this is the “right” way to meditate, but it’s the way it works for me.
A violent storm thundered through yesterday evening while I sizzled sausages for spaghetti. Oaks whipped leaf-laden branches, and the wind slammed rain sideways into the porch. My new phlox got a deep watering-in.
A cold front chased the storm and settled in after it was gone. In the dark night after the rain stopped, I heard an autumn wind. It doesn’t seem right to hear an autumn wind in early August, but accompanied by the dropping temperatures, that’s what it sounded like. Chilled Appalachian air swirled through the open window, and I listened to tall trees full of leaves ssssssh without cease.
This morning, I’m sitting by the front windows in long-pant, long-sleeved PJs. The blue sky is crisp and the sun shines a brilliant gold in the scrubbed air. We’re listening to piano sonatas by Mozart on the record player, the rattle of wind in tall tree tops, and the twitter of birds on the feeder. I smell green leaves, and rain drying, and the stone of mountains.
The cats are frisky in this change of air. They gallop through the house on pink padded paws, thump on the oak floor as they jump off of furniture, and race from open window to open window, wiggling their butts and swishing their tails at each bird that hops or flies or tweets.
In a few minutes, my daughter and I will run over to the library. When I sit under the dogwood tree and write, I get frustrated each time I see a butterfly on a zinnia, or chasing off a hummingbird, and I cannot call it by name. Writing should be precise — I’d rather a succinct name that captures “small black butterfly with black and white markings in kind of a triangle pattern, with a smudge of orange, and it’s wings are kind of frayed looking on the edges” than to have to write all that out. We live in a small town, and our library’s collection reflects that smallness, but I’m hopeful I’ll be able to find field guides to help me identify the creatures that visit our garden.
And later today? We sail. This wind should calm to a suitable speed for our sailboat by midday or early afternoon. The air will be clear, the sky a sparkling blue. We will take a picnic dinner with us — fried chicken maybe, and fruit — so we won’t have to rush back to shore for any reason. We’ve got new rigging on the boat, and a couple of practice trips under our belts. Today we can take our time, and spend as long as we like on the water, eating dinner on the water and sailing into sunset.
It’s that time of year again, when I get to sit under the dogwood tree and soak up the garden. I am amazed by how much is already happening out here from perennials we planted last year. They are thriving after having a year to get established, and many things are flowering that didn’t flower last year: all of the thymes — creeping, lemon, and regular old — , the rosemary, and the lavender is about to burst into bloom. Blueberries have formed, and the rue is already bushy, covered in yellow flowers, and crawling with caterpillars. It’s not even June.
Caterpillar on rue
Lavender buds
Blueberries forming
A breeze blows on the back of my neck and rustles the dogwood leaves above me. The morning sun is hot on my arm. I need to apply sunscreen. I’m on butterfly and bird watch.
It may be too windy for butterflies, or may be too early in the year, but we’ve got treats for them when their ready. I never appreciated the advantages of perennials, that they come back each year without me having to do anything. In Florida, we didn’t have winter to kill everything back. In Florida, gardening was a year round endeavor. I’m not sure perennial had meaning there.
I never knew how glorious they could be — a one time investment of work for a lifetime of beauty! The yarrow and indigo Salvia are already bonkers with blooms. The Echinacea and blanket flower have plump buds, the cat mint and Russian sage and Guara and columbine wave pink and purple flowers in the breeze.
Yarrow and bird bath
Blanket flower buds
Bee and indigo salvia
Guara
Echinacea
Columbine
I decided to put even more perennials in since they come back so full and vibrant each year — and because I can divide them and get free plants out of them — but I’ve also reserved a swath in front of my dogwood roost for annuals. I like to be able to try something new each year, and this year I went with yellows, reds, and oranges, with some white to break it all up. All butterfly flowers of course: scarlet sage, orange Cuphea, white Pentas, yellow, orange and pink zinnias, yellow Lantana.
The zinnias I planted from seed, and spent some time yesterday moving around to space the seedlings out. They’re doing well, but I am impatient for them to grow and bloom. That’s what money buys you in the gardening world: time. The more you spend, the less time you have to wait. I spent about $1.50 on a seed packet, and six weeks later I have about 50 zinnia seedlings 2-3 inches tall. I don’t know how much longer I’ll need to wait for them to blossom, but at blooming time I can guarantee I wouldn’t be able to buy even one flowering zinnia for $1.50.
I’m eager for the Lantana to fill out and cover the ground in front of the bird bath our daughter made me for Mother’s Day. I’ve put stones in it so butterflies can use it, too, and have a place to rest while they sip. So far I haven’t seen any birds or butterflies bathing or drinking, but I keep the water fresh anyway.
Bird bath, yarrow, and zinnia patch
Despite my impatience for things to grow and bloom, I think this is my favorite time of year in Appalachia: the time when I can sit in the garden and steep in the growth that’s happening all around. It still boggles my mind that a kernel as tiny as a sesame seed can become a knee-, or waist-, or chest-high organism with broad green leaves, bright flower petals, pistils and stamens and complex mechanisms for fertilization, and a renewable food source for other organisms. Life is miraculous to me. A kernal to a bush, an acorn to a tree.
Our yard is not a wilderness. A manicured garden is not the first thing that comes to mind when I think “nature.” But our garden is alive. And our intention with it is to attract more life. I want bees and butterflies, wasps and worms, spiders and sparrows, monarchs and moths. I can’t get enough of watching the world around me interact, of soaking it all in and wondering at the marvel of our existence.
This is my entry for the Daily Post prompt, Infuse.
Butterfly Mind 