It’s Spring in the gardens. Was the winter cruel or kind? The debris, fallen branches, wind damage, busted fences, plow damage and crumbled sections of rock walls tell the story of the last five months. Which plants succumbed and which survived? I’m always excited to see each garden for the first time in spring, like visiting an old friend you haven’t seen for awhile.
We go about the usual duties: raking up the debris from the grass, pruning off broken branches, cutting back last years’ flower stalks, raking smooth the piles of gravel that the plow pushed off the driveway, sweeping away the winter from the paths. Brushing the landscape until everything feels like it’s been touched. It’s too early for most flowers and foliage, but this time of year is so beautiful.
Textures of shrubs and trees, paths and bare ground, waiting.
Still. Dormant, but ready. The pulse and swell of spring is not yet here. I have always felt privileged to spend so much time witnessing these moments. Throughout the year but especially in early spring. Real spring is iconic but this time is more subtle. Just textures and a pause. Between the depths of winter and the daffodils and apple blossoms there are piles of gravel and so many sticks and the reacquainting to a landscape not quite awake. A brave cheerful pasque flower pokes up a few inches from the ground, unencumbered by the chilly air or towering plants that will come to be. Soon it’s time to move on. To another garden to check on things and go about our tasks. A practice in leaving something better than you found it, in caring for all the things, in witnessing and
in the labor of seasonal life.
