Walking along the road, watching chipmunks scamper, I saw a small patch of snow drops. Just a few delicate white flowers but the first here on the shore.
A day later, three colts foot had bloomed beside the hosta bed. I dug out one that was growing halfway across the path. This wildflower had taken over that walkway. Last summer, I tackled this invasion, leaving only a strip beside the hostas. They do provide the first flowers of spring on our property, even before dandelions, so they are good for bees, but neither the bees nor I need a two square meter area covered with them. The periwinkle blooms soon, and it is everywhere among the trees.
Removing last years spikey stems from the hostas, I found their root crowns starting to swell. A few worms also moved around what will soon be new shoots.
Last year, the irises did not bloom well. This spring, moving the leaves off the roots and the first green shoots is on the list of early tasks--the leaves get placed in another part of the garden to get dug into the ground. Lilies are tougher, and their sprouts are up several centimeters even with the mat of maple leaves.
Patches of daffodils have lifted the mat of winter-thinned leaves. But up by the road where I brought daffodils from the farm and planted more last fall, three tulips have sent up shoots and nothing more. There was snow there until a week or so ago, so I expect that ground is still very cold, and the daffodils will come.
Clover is growing in the lawn. Grass is starting to turn green amid the brown left overs from last year. The seed I spread in the bare patches hasn't started to grow, but that needs the ground to warm up a bit more.
Looking out from the house, the place looks pretty barren. You have to get up close to see the signs of growth. But they are here. And right up against the south wall of the house where two overgrown matted forsythias stand, I found six shining yellow flowers. I had to be still and looking closely to see them.
Out in the yard, I can believe in new life. I can see the signs of growth that have waited hidden in the earth, in bare branches. In our world, it is harder to tell what is the beginning of something new.
News reports spoke of blue sky over Wu-han and dolphins in the canals of Venice. Shutting down industry and commerce and transportation means less carbon dioxide and other stuff entering the air and water. It is a surprise how quickly the natural world cleaned up. The worry is that we will, as soon as we are allowed out, ramp up the life we knew, bringing back yellow sky and poison water.
Internet platforms are allowing meetings from home, learning opportunities, communication. Churches have been innovative in sharing messages of connection and hope. There is new programming for kids and youth, some with an educational focus, some designed to spark imagination and exploration.
But I worry. As soon as schools and public buildings open, will we go back to what we knew? Are we itching for the old normal? Do we long to go shopping for more than groceries?
We do need to get out of the box that is our home. We need contact beyond the people we live with. We are too individual family focussed already, too inclined to stick with those who are "like us." Those living alone are starved for touch. Teamwork may be discouraged when we work alone from home. We need in person connection and diverse community.
But we also need to hold on to some of what we are learning. As we are forced to imagine new ways of communicating and connecting, learning and growing, some of these offer hope for our future. It isn't as obvious as my garden. It is hard to tell which are new shoots that should be tended and nurtured into the future and which are short lived blossoms to brighten this moment in time. But it feels important to me that we look at the innovation with an eye that sees what opens up what was closed, what needs to be nurtured into a strong new way of being and working.
Cathy Hird lives on the shore of Georgian Bay
