Amidst the melting snow in my front yard on Monday was a tiny reminder of what is to come: the first crocus of spring.
I make a big deal of this every year because it's my new year holiday. Celebrating it requires careful noticing--paying close attention to what is going on right under my nose. I know where the crocuses are planted, but never which one will bloom first or exactly when it will happen.
Celebrating this moment in the cycle of the year also requires me to have an ongoing relationship with these beings--delicate but strong, tiny but able to withstand the harshness of the end of winter. This year, I had begun to worry--this is the first year since 2015 that they didn't bloom in February (one year, they even began blooming in January), so when the calendar turned to March, I began to pace like an expectant dad. But the crocuses didn't let me down. They're back.
The crocuses are my friends in a certain way. They inspire me and ground me. They fill me with hope. They make me worry. They ask for my care, and in return they provide me with beauty.