I used to be a closet Spring hater. In the ranking of seasons, my husband and I have always concurred that Spring is dead last. Before you think ill of me (or at least for this fact), let me hopefully redeem myself by saying it’s because I am an out-of-the-closet humidity hater.
Growing up in Pennsylvania and spending the better part of my adult years on the east coast or in the Midwest, Spring to me was not a romantic vision of rebirth, hope, and possibility, but a promise of heavy, sticky, bad hair days. Spring air flip-flopped between just enough chill to require a light jacket and just enough heat and moisture to require removal of said jacket. Just thinking of it now, I can feel cold sweat beads forming on my upper lip and my hair becoming swollen and unruly a la Rosanne Roseannadanna.
Here, however, in the paradoxical land of plenty of moisture yet little relative humidity (I still need someone to explain this to me), I rarely feel that the weather qualifies as humid. So, in the way that most normal people love Spring, as a welcome respite to many months of grey skies and cold days, a return of the birds’ songs of courtship, and the garden flaunting its ripe pregnant belly, I too have come to love it.
Thus far, our Spring has been spectacular. We’ve already passed the eighty degree mark (which I believe didn’t happen until August last year) and it would seem that there have been more sunny days than cloudy ones. Today the rain has returned and I’m actually relieved that I don’t need to get out to my garden to water this year’s newly planted seeds and starts.
I have to have a good chuckle about the fact that I’ve now written several garden posts – enough, in fact, to warrant a searchable category for “gardening.” Up until recently, I’d be about as likely to post photos of my flowers as I would to post nude pictures. As I’ve mentioned before, our existing garden has forced me into this role. Lest we want our property to get all Grey Gardens, it’s going to need some tending. Although I’ve come to it somewhat reluctantly, our garden has been a large part in realizing one of the primary reasons we moved here – to spend more time outside. And the garden definitely beckons (and often insists) that we get outdoors and give it some attention.
There are so many apt metaphors about gardens and Spring that point to the ephemeral nature of life, of rebirth and death, of hope and promise and of sheer abundance – and they are all present in my little patch of earth. Standing in the midst of all this, birds skittering about, hummingbirds at the feeder, grass needing to be mowed every other day, it can be hard to fathom that just a couple months ago and a few short months to come, its equal and opposing force – scarcity, darkness, quiet – awaits. The trick, I think, is to know that – to hold that knowledge in the midst of all this – but to fully enjoy Spring while it’s here. That, and to celebrate non-frizzy hair.
Lavender along the driveway. Our little taste of the Mediterranean.
The poppies are back! A couple years back I pulled them all out by mistake, thinking the foliage resembled dandelions.
A lover of anticipation much more than the culmination of something, I similarly love the moment right before a bud is about to burst, often more than the actual flower.
The bleeding heart (like the fuchsia below) is a plant that proves sometimes Mother Nature just likes to show off.
I had never seen a fuchsia ’til moving here. They look like little dangling earrings.
All the different shades of columbine.
Bachelor Buttons. I have a soft spot for blue flowers.
One of many Rhodies. Ours aren’t doing so well, but there are patches where they are thriving.
This one looks like it’s being served up on a platter.
Peony. Might be my favorite of the bunch. Like the poppy, I love it when it’s like this and about to burst. Unfortunately, the deer do, too.