I started writing a post about how Spring has arrived. How it was a bit earlier and a bit brighter than usual. How it has always been about birth and renewal, and how this year it seems to mean just a little bit more. All about hope for a new day, the light at the end of the post-pandemic/post-Trump tunnel. How seeing bright new flowers was a sign of our budding hope for the future.
Then some of my creekside neighbors reminded me that we can’t get too far ahead of ourselves. That we are not all the way out of the woods yet. That we need to keep our heads down, keep working to make things better. Because all this glorious new hope can be gone in an instant.
Tulip, Fuji GFX 50R, 120mm, 1/3 sec. @ f/7,1, ISO 100
Or overnight. When the deer come and eat your new tulips. It’s a bummer when you look out your front window in the morning, mug of steaming coffee in your hand, to see your new tulip garden picked clean. All that good work gone to waste.
Or was it? We had a week or two to enjoy the bulbs. And I assume the local deer enjoyed them just as much as we had, maybe more. They even left a few blossoms for us to enjoy (or maybe just for tomorrow night’s late night snack). Those missing tulips are not going to stop Spring from coming. They might remind us of the need to stay vigilant, but there is still a lot more growing. Because we put in a lot more work than just planting a few bulbs. So I’m not going to let it get me down. The tulips were never going to last. A new dawn is still coming. Things are still looking up.
Last year, Spring reminded me of everything we were missing. There was so much uncertainty in front of us, so much we wanted to do but couldn’t, so much beyond our reach. As the world turned inward, every flower that bloomed was a reminder of lost opportunity, of fleeting moments that wouldn’t be recaptured, of people who would never see another bloom.
This year the flowers remind me of hope. That there really will be light at the end of this darkness. That we will emerge into a vibrant and joyful new day. Hopefully with a bit more awareness of how precious that is. And a bit more commitment to each other. To making that new day last.
Daffodil, Fuji GFX 50R, 210mm, 1/150 sec. @ f/9, ISO 1600
Like my garden, the world is about to explode. Buds are popping up all over. A bit of warmth from the sun is all they need to burst forth. It’s the same out on the streets. There’s a feeling in the air, a scent on the breeze. We’ve all been locked up for so long, we can’t wait to get out. To see each other again. To stretch our arms towards the light. Like a bud beginning to flower.
It starts slowly, but it will build. Like a garden. The bulbs planted last fall are the first to emerge. A reminder of the power of time, of the work that gets done in the darkness. Tulip blossoms open briefly to soak up the sun, then close again to protect them from the cold night (but not, apparently, the deer). Then come daffodils, sunny and bright. Bowed but not broken, they openly face the darkness, searching for the light. Next the alliums appear, pushing their thick stems just above the soil over here. Meanwhile bushy African Daisies, already thick with flowers, are spreading over there.
African Daisies, Fuji GFX 50R, 120mm, 1/150 sec. @ f/4, ISO 1600
There is so much more to come. The dogwood tree out front is full with buds waiting to burst. The loquat tree is beginning to fruit. The columbine sent up a few tentative buds the other day. Even those tulips have more to give.
Daffodills, Fuji GFX 50R, 280mm, 1/8 sec. @ f/8, ISO 125
Just a little bit more warmth, just a little bit more light is all we need. So stick with it. Keep at it. Don’t give up.
Columbine, Fuji GFX 50R, 120mm 1/25 sec. @ f/8, ISO 400
Tulip, Fuji GFX 50R, 120mm, 1/7 sec. @ f/7.1, ISO 100
Spring is just around the corner. And it will be glorious.