Asparagus, Just When the Soul's Night is Darkest

I can now definitively confirm that spring has officially arrived.  Yesterday I picked up our first bunch of asparagus from the farm of which we are members.  Lifting it from the cooler, I raised it to the sun like the thank-offering that it is -- a tubular green holy grail the luring anticipation of which led, indeed pulled, us successfully through a winter for the record books.  Thanking the benevolent gardener whose ministrations had given rise to such a blessing, I lovingly placed the bundle on the passenger seat, concluding that the seat belt might be taking my salivary caution too far.  Already I am lamenting that it will be days before we have an evening free enough to turn the kitchen loose on it; nonetheless allowing my culinary imagination to gather its wind.  Shall we steam or saute?  Bake or grill?  Roast or simply throw up our hands in greedy impatience and indulgently eat it raw?

And can there be any doubt that Kohlrabi can be far behind?  And radishes and nettles and strawberries shortly thereafter.  All of a sudden my breathing is deeper and my pulse is slower and life, itself, begins to seem -- I don't know -- more hopeful.

At least more delicious.

Perhaps asparagus was designed by the Creator as a kind of referential call to prayer, rising out of the ground each year and pointing heavenward at almost exactly the time that we have all but given up any hope of surviving:  an emergent green finger reminding us of the source of all mercy and grace.

Butterflies may be beautiful symbols of regeneration, and an empty tomb certainly a biblical image of new life.  But it could turn out to be that asparagus spears are the real emblem of Easter. 

Hang on, then.  If asparagus now, then the days of tomatoes and peppers will surely come.  Ah!  Heavenly bliss

Welcoming those Avian Heralds of Spring

The robins are back, which in more ways than one afford something of a harbinger of spring. They come at a time when winter has stretched our last nerve and, like a guitar string, is plucking out a monotonous and abrasive tune.
The chill and snowflakes that felt quaint and appropriate and even invigorating in the run up to Christmas by now are feeling interminable and grating and demoralizing. We are, as March blusters along, literally aching for spring.

The robins always surprise me when they appear every year about this time, because any mid-western fool knows that the occasional milder days appearing randomly through the week will very likely be slapped down by yet another bitter turn. This for at least another month. Indeed, last Friday saw mercury in the 50's, while Sunday brought new snow, and Tuesday the low was again near 0. Robins are either incredibly intrepid or dangerously naive to show up this early.

But what I love the most about their appearing -- and what makes their arrival as much of a metaphor as a fact -- is their girth. Everyone of them seems to be carrying a dozen or more eggs. They are huge -- bellies swollen almost into caricatures. After somehow managing to get airborne, they clunk back down gracelessly to the earth to hunt for food or, more likely, simply to rest. And there they move lunkishly across the lawn as feathery promises -- pregnant with both the assurance and the foretaste of the spring that is -- one of these days -- to come.

Welcome back, you comical, beautiful, very pregnant avian heralds. We have been waiting.

And Suddenly the Green

I swept out today what surely must be the last remains of winter. The garage had become a veritable warehouse of sand, ferried inside in the tread of the tires from the roadways every time it snowed. A lot of sand gets spread through the course of winter -- especially on a sloped incline like the one approaching our driveway from the road down the hill. I'm routinely dissatisfied with how quickly it gets spread, having been forced one more than one occasion to leave my car at the bottom when it couldn't find the grip to make up the drive. So I can hardly be resentful of the beach that accrues in my garage. Desperate for it to arrive, I can't be picky about where it ends up.

But it's warming now, and even the orange snow fence across the road is getting rolled up until next year. So, I grabbed the broom and helped the tide to roll out. In the process, I noticed the lawn. Less than a week ago it was covered with a late snow. Today it has suddenly, inexplicably become green. Was it lurking beneath the white just waiting to spring into full-blown spring? And the beds, still cluttered with the detritus of the rotted autumn pumpkins that got frozen into place, are similarly making room for the perennial rush.

Perhaps the drab spirits so grayed and weighted by winter's girth and too many other disappointments to mention will find bulbs stirring deep within, and wake one day to discover for themselves...

...spring.

Summer Longing in the Making

Wearing comfortable sweats and curled up on the sofa before a warming fire, I watch the falling snow. It's been coming down since before 6:15 a.m. when I dropped Lori off at the market to meet her ride. Already the deck was thoroughly blanketed in white, and the lawn, at least what I could see of it from the porchlight glow, was white as well.

And it is April 12. The belly-swollen robins must be scratching their heads. As if to remind us that we are not in charge -- that our wishes are not commands -- winter has returned. The forecasters are assuring us that this will be a brief visit-- 70-degrees is the mid-week prediction -- but for now it is chilly, wet, windy and white. I think back with a smile to that first glimpse of flake -- early December, or was it November? -- and how exciting it felt. I love snow; indeed, winter has been one of the attractions of this home for this southern boy who seldom experienced it. But what I'm now confirming is that it was less the winter, itself, than the contrasting seasons it helped set apart.

And I'm ready now for the contrast. I have known for years now that there is no more beautiful spring than the one which follows a bitter winter. Bitter this winter has been. I'm ready now for that beautiful spring. I can wait, of course. I have little choice. But my imagination is alive with the colors forthcoming, and the singing I hear from intrepid birds even now only makes the longing deeper.

Just to galvanize my patience, I think ahead to those late summer days when the temperature, like a sweater caught on a splinter, will almost certainly and humidly hang at triple digits, leaving me desperate for a cooling breeze. I'll look back wistfully on this mid-April snow...

...and laugh.