IT’S BEEN A LONG, cold winter, the kitties are voicing their malcontent, and the massive
gray clouds are pressing on the earth like a cold, wet blanket. I mean, really. Thunder Snow and Thunder Sleet?
But this week, as Mother Nature rolls up her sleeves and delivers one more slug of sleet, I saw it.
It was small, fragile, but there it was.
A single bluebonnet, poking it’s indigo cluster of blooms out of the frost-bit earth like a defiant little fist.
I plant bulbs in the winter.
And each year when I get the bulbs out, trudge out into the cold and start pock-marking the rocky front yard with little holes.
I tuck a bulb into each hole and toss in a handful of poppies, and my pessimist, winter heart just knows it is hopeless, the bulbs will never sprout and winter will never end.
Planting bulbs is something my Daddy taught me–a lesson that lived on in a little girl, long after he was gone. He planted daffodils for his mama, GrannaLucie. She didn’t know he’d planted the bulbs. And they bloomed a bright, hopeful yellow the week after he died–that story is here . . .
That beauty can—and does—come from a shriveled up bulb in a hole in the ground.
For me, planting bulbs is like a prayer I bury in my heart during the darkest of winter.
And wait for spring . . .