“You now, by the calendar, yesterday was the first day of Spring,” I say to my science students.
Some had heard the crazy news, some were incredulous. After all, school had been delayed two hours that morning for the ice coating every car grill, sidewalk, in fact every leaf and power line wire.
But I remind myself to imagine the invisible. The as-yet-unseen. In my imagination I visit the 162 spring-flowering bulbs my Kindergarteners planted in our schoolyard just a few months ago. I imagine those snowdrop, crocus and daffodil bulbs with white roots pushing out of their brown paper wrappers, green sprouts pushing up from the pointed tip. All still underground, hidden a little longer from hungry squirrels. Under the soil, under the mulch, under the snow, under the crusty ice. Soaking in the welcome cold water from each snowmelt, persistently pushing.
And I think upwards, imagining the tiniest tips of twigs at the uppermost branches of the maples and cedars. And I know they are setting flower buds. Small, humble buds that don’t particularly look like flowers, but they will be releasing clouds of pollen in just weeks, when it is still so cold and seems so barren of life.
Stirrings in the wood, root hair to root to trunk to branch to twig. Unseen buds high over our heads opening into frigid air. Down below our feet, stirrings in the fat, fleshy bulbs and perennial’s roots. Dormancy releasing into slow, steady growth pushing through crystalline soil.
The beginning of another spring.