When I look out my window on this November afternoon I see the misty rain falling gently on the leaves I haven’t finished raking into my compost heap, making them slick and shiny in red, gold, and brown on the still green grass. I’m finally at peace with the change of season and ready to plan my spring bulb garden. I receive the brightly colored catalogs through the mail and over the internet. I browse and take notes as I enjoy the task.
I remember other bulb gardens of my past. The fall my beloved mother-in-law planted old heirloom daffodils from her own yard, among the trees in my then front lawn. I was pregnant with my first child and was so nauseas I couldn’t bend over to help her. The daffodils bloomed in provision and I, round and proud, gave birth to my son, Miles, in April. I fondly remember the fall after my second son, Ryan, turned one in August. I taught my two toddlers how to plant bulbs with the root end down and stem up. The next spring, my little ones ran to the red tulips and gently touched each one, huge smiles on their faces. Both sons are college graduates now. I recall the fall I helped thirty juniors and seniors after school one day plant two hundred bulbs in the Shakespearian garden I designed in the high school court yard. Most of those students didn’t know the right end of a bulb to plant; however; some of them I told me that years later they planted bulbs with their own children.
Bulb planting itself is the perfect metaphor describing the leap of faith gardeners take every time they plant something in the dirt. It’s amazing that a bunch of round roots with a papery brown husk can suffer the cold and wet of winter and emerge into the fresh green leaves and brilliant hues of daffodils, crocuses, and hyacinths.
A wonderful couple I know just celebrated their fiftieth anniversary and used two bulbs to illustrate the investment of time in their lives together and the result of three daughters and four grandchildren. The bulbs were tied in a golden burlap and tied with a scroll bearing the following hymn called “The Promise”:
“In the bulb there is a flower;
In the seed, an apple tree;
In cocoons, a hidden promise:
Butterflies will soon be free!
In the cold and snow of winter
There’s a spring that waits to be,
Unrevealed until its season,
Something God alone can see.”
Please share the delight of planting bulbs in the fall with someone you love. I have and I have memories of happy times and I plan to create more in the future.
