It has been a strange winter: we’ve had (knock on wood) hardly any snow, at least by normal Boston standards. We had the cloudiest January on record and a bitter cold snap in early February (which, thankfully, I missed because I was in California).
It’s felt a bit odd not to step around piles of slush, and I’m getting a little worried about what this unusual winter might mean for the rest of this year. I struggle with snow and cold and ice, but I know the plants and the ground need it to give us the other beautiful New England seasons I love.
But. I spotted the first purple crocus in our community garden the other day, pushing up through mulch and sticks and a few bits of discarded litter. And it gave me the same heart-leap of joy and hope as every year: no matter what, no matter the grey skies and existential crises and chilly nights with or without snow, spring will still come. It’s a relief and a blessing to know that the promise is kept: that underground, where we can’t yet see it, growth is happening. Color and joy, and new life, are on their way.
cakes, tea and dreams 