involving hope

One morning in November, I heard a man on the van radio say, "Planting anything always involves hope." I was impressed by the simplicity of that thought, and how I felt that he had been speaking directly to me, and I started to cry. I thought about it Saturday, and felt sorry that I didn't remember who had said it.

Saturday was the coldest day of last week, the second week in December. We had enjoyed several perfect days of light jackets. Lindon Nursery was selling flower bulbs at forty percent off Wednesday. I used some of my birthday cash from Grandma Martha to buy Spring...daffodils, tullips, and irises.  Saturday snow was predicted by noon, so I went out first thing to get the bulbs in the ground before it arrived.
I let the rabbits help me. They were upset about my pulling out the old annuals and dead heading the perennials, which I don't think I did a very good job of.  They probably won't be back.
Here are Wes and I together. I think there is a bit of resemblance. It is true that Sam named one of our rabbits after the director of Moon Rise Kingdom.  

 I am not sure that there is anything more inspiring than a bulb, with its amazing potential to produce, divide, withstand, repeat. 

 Just as I was sweeping up the pulled out weeds and scattered soil and crunchy old leaves the wind started to blow in and what looked like the predicted storm started to arrive.  I can't remember the last time I was outside when snow started to fall, little gentle flakes.  It was lovely to look up at the heavy clouds covering the mountains and imagine what drama was going on up there as I stood below, in the valley, looking at my garden and thinking about Spring.  In summer I looked toward winter with dread, knowing my yard would be bleak again.  But this, year, because I have planted so many bulbs, it will not feel abandoned, but rather, cultivated. It will know I am waiting.  The rabbits are waiting too, but they aren't going to play here once my flowers come up. They can poop there all winter long, however. 

 I am like this: wherever I am I miss the rest of the world.  It is my challenge in life to be patient with the present, because I always miss it intensely when it is gone.  This was my Saturday evening. Looks like rubble. I am buried underneath the figuring out of many things, but this one happens to be what to do with too many girls in one room. 

One day this will not be the present, and I suppose I will feel an intense longing for this view from the mess upward. And for everything that surrounds me... blankets, dirty socks, pencil stubs and candy wrappers, gloriously rescued misplaced shoes, and maybe I will even miss the figuring out, which some days feels like it will crush me, like rubble would, or maybe even like soil, but my hope is that it won't.