The other day our outside temperatures reached into the mid-60’s for perhaps the first time this year, and though I’ve been hesitant to prematurely herald the end of winter, we seem to be on the right track. I took a quick look at our side yard, and after startling a rabbit, I found this little sign of spring poking through the ground.
The very first jonquil to appear is always a happy sight. My parents have a few that have already shown up in a protected space outside their front door. These brave and bold shoots run the risk of being buried in blizzards and snow squalls up until April, so to see them take such a chance and demand their place in the sun at this early point is emboldening and heartbreaking at once. The simple yearning of the world to shake off the frigid countenance of winter always touches me.
Whenever I see a spring bulb poking through the winter snow, I’m reminded of a May snow squall from my childhood. Yes, May, because in upstate New York that’s the bullshit we sometimes get. A little plot of tulips was just about to bloom, and I had been anxiously awaiting the show for months. Every day as the buds swelled and then started to show some color, I rushed out to make note of their progress, carefully studying and examining each bud as it evolved, wholly invested and caught up in their growth. When at last they opened their red and yellow petals, the snow squall hit, and snowflakes piled up on their petals and leaves, rising on the ground around them. I wanted to cry. How cruel, I thought. How utterly unfair and cruel to snow on such beautiful flowers and destroy all the months of slumber and growth it took to get here. I went inside dejectedly, wondering at life, accepting its harsh lesson, and teetering between feeling despondent enough to give up and invigorated to try again.
The next day I went out to see them, and to my surprise all the snow was gone, and the tulips were still blooming. They’d survived the quick brush with snow and recovered. A few of the leaves sagged and bent beneath the ordeal, but overall most were intact, and as beautiful as before. That was my second lesson in as many days. Even when you think all is lost, keep going. Some things are stronger than we think they are, even if they’re delicate and pretty.
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