waiting

by

A stubborn spring

As someone who is on the lookout for signs of spring as early as February, I think I can say the season is stubbornly late this year.  As I take my daily walks, my eyes are straining to see wisps of wildflower foliage, but very little has poked through the leaf cover, especially considering that, at this time last year, there were not just leaves but open blooms. Likewise, the daffodils have formed buds, but not one has opened, though my longing looks at the dwarf iris stems finally were rewarded with blooms – but approximately two weeks later than last year. 

A dwarf iris finally bloomed, though two weeks later than last year.

It probably seems like a small thing to fuss over spring being late. After all, the calendar says it didn’t officially arrive until last week. What could be so terrible about a two-week delay in flowers blooming?

But to the winter-weary who are still shivering in down coats with scarves wrapped in place to ward off the dreadful winds, impatience is understandably setting in. I saw it on the tired face of a friend as we talked about “the cold” that refuses to let up. You see, as soon as January ends, we northern dwellers start to play a little game in which we trick ourselves into thinking spring is near. It goes something like this: “March is next month. March means the first day of spring. Winter soon will be over!” 

We know that it may not be, that it often has not been. We remember March winds and April snowstorms. But we can’t help hoping. We check weather forecasts and the slowly changing times of sunrise and sunset, clinging to anything remotely suggesting warmer temperatures, sunshine, or the greening of the landscape. When all of that fails or disappoints, I choose to be encouraged by less weather-dependent indicators like the big sign outside my favorite greenhouse as it finally announces, “Opening April 1” and the sudden appearance of hanging baskets inside. 

There are other hopeful signs, too, like the Wood Ducks who have been visiting for the last few weeks and the Eastern Screech Owl who has occupied one of our nesting boxes.  Despite the wretched chill in the air, I know it’s also time to be alert for the bobbing tail of the Eastern Phoebe, one of spring’s early migrants. 

A male Wood Duck showing off his distinctive markings.

Meanwhile, I have to acknowledge that with each day, there are more wildflower shoots – mostly the starts of Spring Beauty – popping up along the woods paths. I even saw a tiny Spring Cress plant with tinier buds on it the other day. As I watch and wait, I know the big change will come quickly and seemingly all at once when drifts of Spring Beauty, Dutchman’s Breeches, and Bellwort appear under the trees along with Violets, Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Wild Geranium, and Swamp Buttercup. But like a nervous hostess awaiting her guests, I can’t help but wish they weren’t running so late this year. 

Starts of Spring Beauty emerging.
The tiniest buds of Spring Cress poking hope through the leaf cover.

I am reminded of Captain Harville in Jane Austen’s Persuasion describing how a sailor feels  while waiting to see his wife and children after returning from a twelve-month absence: “. . . he calculates how soon it will be possible to get them there, pretending to deceive himself, and saying, ‘They cannot be here till such a day,’ but all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner still!” 

As I also wait and calculate, pretend and hope, I know spring’s long twelve-month absence will eventually end in a profusion of beauty. And when it gets here, it may even seem as if it arrived sooner than I expected. But for now, I wait under the gray clouds, shivering in the cold, and listening to the roar of the wind, keeping faith that what is unseen will one day be revealed. 

by

Waiting for spring

Image

Sometime around mid-February, those of us who live where seasonal change is felt most keenly start the long wait for spring.

With that season of promise nearly upon us as I write, the signs of its approach seem sparse. An east wind is blowing off a frozen lake and temperatures returned to the teens overnight. Further defying the onset of warmer weather are the stubbornly intact patches of snow that, though beginning to diminish, cling to our landscape.

Absorbed in this state of waiting, many of us are edgy, irritable, and anxious, even as we try to remind ourselves that spring must come eventually. We glance outside and then look at the calendar, counting the days until the equinox. Still bundled in our winter coats and scarves, we gaze longingly at spring merchandise in stores. We rejoice and celebrate the occasional mild day, even as our hopes are dashed by another snowstorm or cold front.

We are waiting, and maybe not so well, especially when what we see and feel doesn’t fit our desire to shed our winter layers and bask in warmth again. Instead of getting locked in frustration, though, I am starting to notice that if I can quiet myself just a little,  I can see and hear signs that something in the earth has shifted, signaling a new season is on its way.

After all, although there is still snow on the ground, much of what fell during a March storm that blanketed our area last week has already started to disappear, revealing – could it be? – grass.  On closer inspection, I notice the tips of daffodil foliage emerging. Near a pond frozen over and covered with snow, I am able to see more and more of a log that has been our snow-depth gauge all winter. And the male cardinals who have brightened wintry days with their brilliant red feathers have broken their silence, moved to resume singing by what they know to be coming.

A fellow writer who senses this change says she is feeling the intensity of the sun on her walks in a way she did not in January. Her spirits have taken flight at the sight of returning red-winged blackbirds, robins, and bluebirds. “You know that winter has lost its grip and is on the way out,” she writes, “no matter how much it tries to make us feel that it isn’t.”

The day before our latest snowstorm, I found a woolly bear caterpillar on a lane between two open fields. Knowing the storm was coming, I tucked this little herald of spring into a brushy area inside the woods not only in hopes it would survive, but as a pledge of faith in the coming season of new life.

Waiting can be a time of watching and listening and delighting in what we see and hear, if only we will open ourselves to it. For me, these days of anticipation are ones in which I am reminding myself to spend time outside whenever I can, even if the temperature and wind speed are not quite ideal, and to keep my eyes and ears attuned to the harbingers of spring.