Crocuses and Optimism

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Mid-March crocuses.

I am an optimist. A belt-and-suspenders, prepare for the worst and be glad when it’s not optimist, raised by people only half a generation out from the Great Depression–but nonetheless, an optimist. I look for signs of hope while I choose not to downplay the suffering and unfairness that exist intertwined with that hope. I acknowledge the immensity of so many good things I’ve received, earned or not. 

That’s been helpful during these days of up and down realities and feelings, the strange watchfulness and anxiety—what my fellow writer E.P. Beaumont has described to me as “Big Crisis combined with No Big Motion.” 

All the motion I can do is walk.

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Sky over Sage College, Troy NY, March 2020

Six days ago, I set out for the Sage College campus under a rain-brooding sky. I found my first spring flowers–popped up in a corner bed:  crocuses, so perky and open. Some of them relaxed back, complete with raindrop sparkles (like those too-artful portraits with a single tear on the cheek).

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Picture perfect spring crocus

A few nights later it snowed long and steady here in the Hudson Valley. Six inches or so of moist snow sounded like styrofoam squeaking as I shuffled through it. An umbrella protected from the plops and blops, let go from overloaded trees in the dark. 

I thought of my crocuses and found them, as expected, buried and flattened under the snow. 

Such a sadness. Did it portend or just reflect the horrors we are facing?

I noted what I found, felt it, and went on to tromp through the snow some more; I wondered at the thick white frosting on spring budded trees and even smiled at the usual landmarks softened in golden streetlight glow.

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Other spring bulbs weighted by the snow

In daylight, the weather warmed and the snow melted away almost entirely. I went back, concerned at what I might or might not find.

There they were: beaten, torn, down in the mud. MY crocuses; it hurt to see them damaged, some flowers not coming back.

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Flattened and bruised.

However, the mud, often disparaged, is for growing. I found another bunch of bulbs that had sprung back with vigor. 

Some of the flowers will not return. Some will come back next year. Some are already OK.

I hear the message:  appreciate what you can while you can. Feel what you feel, move your body, hold both the optimism and the bad news. 

And dammit, take the precautions, be belt-and-suspenders! Do not weary of what will keep ALL of us vulnerable humans (those tender purple petals, every precious last one!) safe and able to blossom again.

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We’re in the middle of the storm. Keep the lamp on for each other.

 

Bunnies and Hope

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The hedgerow at sunset

I see them at night, after work, when I pull into a parking spot.

By the hedgerow: round, stone-shaped shadows, but then a fluff tail pops up, a hop gives them away. Sometimes one bunny, often a pair.

They give me hope. 

These creatures are huge, from nibbling the grass and the plants by the farmer’s field.  They pause when caught in my headlights, then scamper back to the safety of the brush. Sometimes they stay until long after I leave, if I don’t make too much noise or movement.

Even in the snow, they are out there. It’s late enough in the day they must not fear the eagles and other hunters in the area.

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Another predator: the Cooper’s hawk that sometimes stalks the bird feeder.

It’s usually at late dusk or already dark, so photos are difficult. In my excitement I end up with pixellated brown and white blobs against gray grass, so I choose instead to observe, breathe, take them into my memory.

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Cardinals and sparrows in the hedgerow by day.

One dusk walk last summer it was a “twelve-bunny night,” with various bucks and does nibbling grapevines and greenery near the apartments. A bevy of bunnies under bushes and bopping in the open field; a score skittering between buildings where small children run themselves, wobbly with bikes and balls. 

Another night we mourned a small rabbit smashed on the road, and wondered if it was the result of deliberate cruelty, or a mistaken dash across the asphalt. 

Could you be more careful? we asked—of drivers and of bunnies. We will be, now.

A dear friend used to say that bunnies were a sign of good luck, or good things to come. She gave us all little charms of smiling bunnies that made me smile in turn. When I see rabbits, I remember to think positively, for all the good in the midst of what can feel like overwhelming bad in our world.

Every chance I get, I look for bunnies on the lawn. Every chance.