What a glorious transformation from barren grey to leafy green over the past several weeks! Once the spring rebirth truly arrives, my memories of winter fade—perhaps in the same way that soon after my babies were born I barely remembered the stress of labor (until time for the next winter or next labor). Wonder if Mother Earth feels that way too?

Colorful lush rhododendrons

Tom and I just got back from a busy weeklong AAA tour to British Columbia. We went to Victoria and Vancouver, where we were immersed in spring blooms because both places have stunning gardens. Especially Victoria, where in addition to public plantings everyone has a lush private garden. We were amazed by the rhododendrons, which we didn’t recognize as such, because there they are taller than a person—more like trees than bushes—and bloom in every color of the rainbow it seems.

Quarry garden

I loved that both Victoria and Vancouver are graced with beloved public gardens that restore beauty to what were originally rock quarries.

Quarry garden

Something else I loved in Victoria: they don’t mow the long grass in their large city park in the spring because they know the birds nest in it; they wait to mow until the birds have hatched!

Flowers amidst the unmowed grass

Lust for life and growth are on display everywhere here too now, delighting and nourishing eyes, nose, skin. Making me want to chirp in joy and gratitude.

And does that lifelust have its own chorus?

Reminds me of a poem I love by Lisel Mueller that was sent to me by a dear friend years ago (thank you Anne!):

What the Dog Perhaps Hears

If an inaudible whistle
blown between our lips
can send him home to us, 
then silence is perhaps
the sound of spiders breathing
and roots mining the earth; 
it may be asparagus heaving, 
headfirst, into the light
and the long brown sound
of cracked cups, when it happens. 
We would like to ask the dog
if there is a continuous whir
because the child in the house 
keeps growing, if the snake
really stretches full length
without a click and the sun
breaks through clouds without
a decibel of effort, 
whether in autumn, when the trees
dry up their wells, there isn’t a shudder
too high for us to hear.

What is it like up there
above the shut-off level
of our simple ears?
For us there was no birth cry,
the newborn bird is suddenly here, 
the egg broken, the nest alive,
and we heard nothing when the world changed.

What is the sound of your garden bursting into blossom? A pop? A roar? A ripple? A sigh?