So after the rain earlier this week, I got busy and planted some bulbs (tulip, crocus, grape hyacinth) and the WHOLE TIME I planted I thought to myself, "These won't bloom. How can they possibly bloom? They're so little and you plant them so deep and those shoots have to work REALLY hard to push through the ground, which is like concrete and yeah. These won't bloom."
This is the way I think about things a lot. I used to be optimistic, but now I'm always waiting for things to go south. BECAUSE THEY DO. Or not. But I always think they will. I don't have much faith, as it turns out. I am a surprisingly faith-less human being.
And yet every spring my garden is full of glistening tulips.
Awesome, isn't it?
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Yep. My hiking season is probably just about over. It seems like just yesterday I was saying naughty words about the freaking unrelenting snow and watching for the very first signs of plant life and flowers, last spring, on the lower trails. And then, weekly, amazingly, here they came: glacier lilies, spring beauties, yellow bells and all the rest, in their proper blooming order. And there was hallelujahing, of course, but also a bit of surprise at seeing these old friends, again, wondering how they had weathered the nine jillion inches of snow last winter. Now here we go again. The last of the goldenrod, daisy, goldeneye blooms are going or gone to ragged bits of white fluff. And anytime, now--e.g. last week!--the snows will pile on again. And there is a corner of my non-rational mind that fears I won't see them again, that one of us won't make it to April (or June!) this time. How can that little steer's head flower, that Indian potato, survive and push its way up and through? How can I stay sane and fight off atrophy through five (seven?) months of darkness and cold and driving in the snow and darkness? It doesn't seem possible, from here. But, like faith-less you in your garden, Ann, should I get to see another spring roll around, you can bet I'll be up on the trail, irrationally, doubting Thomasishly happy at seeing the least bit of green.
I have so many tulip bulbs I need to plant I gotta get busy. Thinking about them will be one of the handful of things that I pull out of my mental pocket when it is dark dark dark, to get me through. I haven't *ever* been to your house in the spring, when things start to bloom. I will be there this next April, and there will be crocus and hyacinth and tulips, I'm putting money on it.
Awesome is just the right word. The whole idea they have to work so hard to be seen, and the effort is unseen as well.
I think I am a tulip.
Because I am planted deep, I work hard to get to the top, and then when I am blooming....I rock!
Just a little seed of faith can produce wonderous results. Plant the bulbs early and await the magic of Spring. Until you get there, try to smell the roses along the way. I hear Costco has a couple dozen for under $15.
Evidently, there are a lot of bulb-like people in this world. I love Donna's comment, ". . .when I am blooming, I rock."
Amen and Hallelujah!
and yet... you plant the bulbs! that's more than I do most days.
And then there is me. I "thought" about planting the bulbs I carefully dug OUT of the ground last spring at the end of their blooming.
Talk about faithless. How can anything grow without the initial effort. Hm?
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