Bulbs

They are harbingers of spring. They are hope during January's cold, and February's rain. First the snow drops, then the crocuses. And then the daffodils, trumpeting the coming of light and warmth. Followed by hyacinth, and tulips. Aw, yes, the tulips.

I don't really understand how bulbs survive the winter. Only a few inches down in the cold, dark, often frozen earth. What is it in them that can withstand the dreariness? What spirit infuses them to awake once more, and raise their heads, and push up and out, and grow once more toward the light? Why don't they give up?

Sometimes I think giving up would be the easier thing to do. Sometimes, I imagine, those hardy little bulbs emerge in January, in a corner of a lot, and no-one even notices. When I notice them it is like a little, unexpected gift. One I often am not able to share with anyone. Just me, and the snowdrops. Just me, taking heart from their presence. Their presents.

I am not a gardener, but I have planted bulbs. I am not one for buying myself flowers, but I do buy daffodils, and irises, and tulips. Bulbs remind me that there is something inside of everything that we can't see and don't understand. Bulbs remind me that with the tiniest bit of warmth, life will strive to overcome desolation.

Even though winter isn't over, they promise of spring.

I could use spring right now. It has been that kind of winter.