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Posts Tagged ‘tulips’

crocus-sprouts

The crocuses in that triangular bed across from my beloved Darwin’s.

daffodil-sprouts

The daffodils tucked up against brick walls in Cambridge flowerbeds.

witch hazel bloom cambridge

The witch hazel in front of the Harvard Art Museums.

snowdrops dew flowers

Snowdrops tangled in the ground cover on a side street near my office.

Something’s coming, Tony sings in West Side Story. Something good, if I can wait. 

I’m watching and hoping for spring, which isn’t quite here yet. (We’re just knocking on March, after all.) But these sprouts are giving me joy while I wait.

tulip sprouts flowerbed

Even the tulips – a little early – are joining in the show.

What’s sprouting where you are?

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orange-tulips-public-garden

“I love tulips better than any other spring flower; they are the embodiment of alert cheerfulness and tidy grace.

red tulips boston public garden

“Their faint, delicate scent is refinement itself; and is there anything in the world more charming than the sprightly way they hold up their little faces to the sun?

multicolored-tulips-willow

“I have heard them called bold and flaunting, but to me they seem modest grace itself, only always on the alert to enjoy life as much as they can and not afraid of looking the sun or anything else above them in the face.”

—Elizabeth von Arnim, Elizabeth and her German Garden

yellow-tulips-light

It is tulip season in the Boston Public Garden, and I took these photos one night last week, when I wandered down there after work.

white tulips boston public garden

I agree completely with von Arnim about tulips, and am loving every glimpse of their graceful heads, bobbing on tall, slender stalks. (And that spring light is simply glorious.)

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tulip magnolia buds blooms

Spring is still struggling to tug itself forward. So am I. Outside my writing window, it is drizzling, and my mood matches the atmosphere—dribs and drabs of depression, a light misting of malaise. What’s wrong with me is what’s wrong with spring: I am not all here yet. Some part of me is still caught in yesterday’s winter, and that chill grip on my ankle will not let go.

—Julia Cameron, The Sound of Paper

“Everything right now feels tentative, uncertain, transitional,” Lindsey wrote recently on her blog, and I felt a quiet thump of recognition when I read those words. Yes.

After a winter that did not overpower us like last year’s, I think we were all expecting an early spring. But the weather in New England – whatever else it may be – is rarely predictable.

A couple of late snowstorms (six inches of snow in early April!) and attendant cold snaps have pulled us up short, reminded us that winter isn’t quite gone yet. The evenings are longer, the light sharper and more golden, but the air still carries a bite. On most days, I’m still wearing my winter uniform of black leggings, ankle boots, green wool coat. I have been yearning for a vacation to somewhere warm, but that wasn’t in the cards this year.

During these breezy, capricious spring days, I have also been in transition at work (again): adjusting to the rhythm of a new office, six floors above the ground in Harvard Square. New colleagues, new duties and dynamics, a slight shift in work hours, a different angle on the neighborhood and the university I love so well.

I have struggled to be “all here” in this season, to live in my new-for-now reality instead of missing the one I left, or worrying over the lack of permanence. Meanwhile, various other uncertainties, large and small, keep knocking me off balance.

“We are always swept this way and that,” Jessica Fechtor writes in her gorgeous memoir, Stir, which I read last week. “We create the life we want to live, yes. Then, in return, that life creates us. We follow the tides; we have no choice. We splash about beneath the brightest of moons, then the darkest of skies, tug hard from the surface on anchors that refuse to budge, and then, if we are very brave, dive deep.”

Some seasons, as Lindsey noted in her post, feel particularly off-kilter, uncertain. And yet this is the way life is, though we don’t always realize it. We spend our days in the liminal spaces, moving from change to change. We follow the tides, as Fechtor says: sometimes floating and splashing on the surface, sometimes diving deep. I know that all these things are true, and yet I am always searching for anchors, a safe place to rest, a still point or two in a turning world.

I find it hard sometimes to look for the beauty in transition: it’s much easier to appreciate budding trees and unfurling tulips than it is to make sense of deep personal struggles. But the in-between places are where our lives take shape, and there is – I know – lots of joy to be found there.

“My job, and I do not always like it, is to imitate the season unfurling outside my window,” Julia Cameron writes in the essay quoted above. As I walk through this slow and lovely spring, I am trying to emulate the trees and flowers: to pay attention to the light, and (as Julia concludes) “to push on through the gray into greater blossoming.”

early tulips public garden boston spring

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All the tulips.

purple tulips

This winter, I’ve been visiting the local flower shop at least once a week, buying bunches of tulips and daffodils for my desk at work. (Lately, it’s been more like two or three times a week. Because my kitchen table needs brightening too, and with nearly five feet of snow piled up on the ground, I’m looking for lifesavers wherever I can find them.)

tulips table book bowl curry lunch

A week or so ago, a male colleague paused to comment on the current arrangement (I think it was the vase of purple tulips above). “Where are all these flowers coming from?” he asked.

yellow tulips desk

Brattle Square Florist,” I replied. (To be honest, dropping in there is half the fun. It’s packed with blooming plants and cut flowers, and it always smells amazing – fresh and sweet and green. And the owner, a tall man with kind eyes, always has a cheery word for me.)

He looked confused. “Not from your husband?”

Before I could reply, one of my female colleagues called from her office, “We do buy flowers for ourselves sometimes, you know!”

tulips tea jeeves

I cracked up. Exactly.

My husband has many fine qualities, but he only buys me flowers about twice a year. Rather than hinting or feeling sorry for myself, I just go buy them if I want them. It’s gratifying to take care of myself in this small way, and I get to choose exactly what I want. (It’s usually tulips – or sometimes daffodils.)

Bonus: confusing my male colleagues is sometimes really fun.

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After a long, cold, grey winter, I’m so grateful for views like these.

(All photos taken this week, in the Boston Public Garden)

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