Heralds of Spring

It is said that no universally accepted event heralds the spring. Meteorologists marks the season's beginning on March 1. For astronomers and most of us, spring arrives on the vernal equinox, which falls somewhere around the 20th of March, depending on the year. Still others have a more personal marker for the start of the season: the first flush of the yellow daffodil, the return of birdsong in the early morning hour, or the first flower on the dogwood tree. In 1736, the English naturalist Robert Marsham started to document 27 "Indications of Spring." For 62 years, without interruption, he recorded the dates different trees came into leaf, flowers bloomed, frogs first croaked and butterflies appeared. He noted the first swallow of the year as they flew over Stratton Strawless in Norfolk at the end of their 6,000-mile journey from southern Africa. Marsham's observations became the basis of phenology, the study of the effects of the seasons on plants and animals.

We have passed the vernal equinox, and the day is now officially longer than the night, but I am still waiting for spring. The crocuses have come up, and the robins are back in town, but we've had a freezing rain for the last two days. The sun is now peeking out of the clouds, at the end of an unremittingly grey day, setting the brick buildings across the street aflame. I am heartened at the sight of my bleeding heart plants pushing through the ground and know that spring cannot be far away.

Spring, almost

March, from the Roman Martius, was the first month of the Roman calendar. The Anglo-Saxons called it "Hlyd monath," meaning Stormy month, or "Hraed monath," Rugged month. To me March is both a stormy and rugged month, but it is also "a month of expectation." The sun is bright but the chill still lingers in the air. In the garden, the dead hydrangea blooms are worn down almost to nothing but delicate filigrees that barely hang onto the branches. Any moment now, they will give way to new buds, like the ones filling up the magnolia trees. Hellebore blossoms, enveloped in glossy new foliage, are pushing out of the soil. Crocuses have burst into flowers. The witch hazels are fading fast, while tiny yellow winter aconites are making their cheery appearance on the ground. It is spring, almost.

Signs of Spring

Hamamelis x intermedia 'Jelena'
Daffodils

After what seems like a very long winter, we've had two days of above freezing temperature. Suddenly, spring does not seem so far away. The daffodils are pushing out of the ground and witch hazel trees are blooming all over the city, unfurling their curly ribbons in shades of gold and copper.

three days until Spring

Blooming hellebores at Tear Drop Park

A field of purple crocus

Fragrant witch hazel

Afternoon light in Lily's room

iPhone diary

Spring

Today was a beautiful spring day, but not in the usual dazzling way we usually think of spring. A light rain fell and left droplets of water on all the flowers and foliage, rendering the entire landscape soft and shimmering. The grass and new leaves on the trees turned an intense green that I find deeply comforting. The Katsura tree stood stunningly beautiful in the rain, its enormous trunk looking so imposing and majestic while tiny heart-shaped chartreuse leaves cling delicately to its spreading branches. It made me think of Dad, who always stood so solidly to support his large clan, holding onto to everyone near and far. A chatty cardinal, a smear of bright red against the dull sky, hovered in the trees above me the whole morning while I worked in the rose garden at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. A group of kindergardeners on  a school trip stopped and said hello to me while I was pruning the roses. Their bright smiling faces were irresistibly cheerful. Tourists came to ask about the cherry blossoms. MaryAnn spotted a kinglet and a hermit thrush flitting about the trees. I've really come to  love this little spot of earth, a wonderful institution that serves the community in so many ways, a perfect example of Jean Nouvel's dictum for urban life, "un accès aux mêmes bonheurs urbains."  I think I could be happy spending every day there. I am not sure what it is exactly, but I have a great sense of well being the minute I step onto the grounds at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. I feel protected in its space, a calm island of greenery amidst a churning sea of life in New York City. I have found consolation in the ever moving life cycle in the plants, with spring returning as surely as winter waits in the distance. The leaves fall and the flowers bloom each in their own time, just as I am in the autumn of my life and Lily is blossoming each day.