Warming Up To Spring

Dear Friend,

Spring certainly took her sweet time arriving this year, didn’t she?

This past long weekend finally gave us a little taste of summer. Not the full blazing version, mind you. More like summer dipped her toes in, decided it was still a little chilly but worth the effort, and said, “Alright fine… I suppose I can stay awhile.” Then the next day … “uhhh maybe not.”

After weeks of cold mornings, thick frost, and enough wind to make the windows rattle, we suddenly had sunshine that actually felt warm instead of decorative. I think we all exhaled a little.

Earlier this month, even on the brightest days, spring still had teeth. You would step outside thinking, Oh, this feels lovely, and then five minutes later find yourself clutching your cardigan closed while trying to hang the birdfeeders.

The tomatoes, peppers, and herbs finally made their way into the garden after what can only be described as a highly questionable three-day hardening-off period. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger… right?

Frankly, things inside the house had become increasingly dramatic before the warm weather finally arrived. The seedlings had officially entered the “we require better accommodations immediately” stage of development, despite already having upgraded shelves, grow lights, and far more attention than most humans receive. Still, every sunny morning they leaned desperately toward the windows like Victorian children longing to go outdoors.

Well, their wish has now been granted, for better or worse.

The raised beds, have been marching ahead since we covered 3 of the 4 of them with poly shortly after the snow disappeared. Weeks ago I sowed kale, chard, carrots, onions, radish, and lettuce under the covers, more out of hope and habit than confidence.

The kale, chard, and radishes were slow but reliably present within a week. The lettuce is still thinking about trying to grow. The carrots, meanwhile, are doing what carrots do best: making me question whether I planted them at all.

And remember those herbs I told you about? The ones that somehow survived the winter in the compost pile? Well… I may have gotten a little overexcited and pulled a few of them out too soon. Apparently resilience has limits.

And finally, almost quietly, spring began winning and the gardens decided to wake up.

The daffodils arrived first, naturally, like the belles of the ball –  loud, cheerful, and entirely unwilling to be ignored.

The violets appeared soon after. One day the ground was brown and sleepy, and the next there they were: tiny purple and white blooms scattered through the garden as though someone had casually tossed handfuls of colour into the grass overnight. The rabbits didn’t waste any time getting to the buffet.

The yarrow is waking up too. The hostas are pushing through the cold ground in tight green spikes, and the New England asters have begun their return alongside so many other familiar friends. Every day there is something new if I slow down enough to notice it.

Perhaps my favourite small miracle this spring is that the haskaps and blueberries I planted last fall survived their first winter. I know experienced gardeners will say, “Well yes, that is generally how plants work.” Still, every time a plant returns after their first winter, I feel personally encouraged by it. 

There is something deeply reassuring about seeing tiny leaves emerge from what looked like dead wood only days before. Spring arrives quietly at first – a bud, then a shoot, and then suddenly the whole world is green again.

And the birds! The birds are coming back!

First came the robins, arriving with all the subtlety of an alarm clock and loudly informing the resident blue jays, crows, chickadees, and nuthatches that winter was officially over whether they liked it or not.

Then the juncos appeared for their brief little visit, along with the song sparrows, whose cheerful chatter somehow makes the whole property feel softer overnight.

But nothing compares to the first warblers! 

Every year there is one morning when I step outside and hear them: tiny, impossibly energetic voices tumbling through the trees as though the forest itself has burst into song. Suddenly spring feels real.

They have been here nearly two weeks now, filling the mornings with music while I carry coffee from one window to another trying to spot them among the branches. It is one of my favourite parts of the season.

It is also a little heartbreaking because, just as you settle into their songs, you remember they are only passing through. Soon enough they will move farther north, and the woods will grow quieter again.

Nature does that a lot, doesn’t it? It gives us beautiful things that were never meant to stay exactly as they are.

Brian built an amazing new oriole feeder this year because, apparently, being extremely handsome was not enough; he also had to be smart, creative, and talented too. I truly do not know how I got so lucky. The orioles seem happy with the arrangement as well. They have been lingering much longer than usual.

This time of year always carries a strange tension for me: the pull between rest and momentum.

Part of me wants to burst into action the moment spring arrives: to clean everything, plant everything, organize everything all at once. Another part of me wants to slow down and simply watch the season unfold. I want to leave room for noticing. I want to leave room for excitement without immediately turning it into obligation.

Because there is excitement coming, and not just in the woods.

We have an anniversary getaway just around the corner, and I already find myself daydreaming about hiking, wandering unfamiliar little towns, good food, lakeshore views, and the simple luxury of exploring.

Later this summer we will head west again to visit family.

Those trips always leave me feeling stretched and stitched back together somehow. There is nothing quite like hearing grandchildren laugh in person instead of through a phone speaker. Nothing quite like unexpected hugs or watching the people you love continue becoming themselves.

The gardens will grow while I am gone. The weeds will grow too, obviously. Nature believes strongly in balance.

But I am learning that life cannot only be about maintenance and productivity.

The gardens matter to me deeply. The writing matters. The projects matter.

But so does joy. So does rest.

So does sitting quietly in the morning, with a cup of coffee and a half-finished project while birdsong fills the forest. Especially that.

Everything here unfolds in stages: the frost, the mud, the first shoots, the brave little flowers, the cautious green haze in the trees, and eventually – almost before you notice it – fullness.

We are allowed to unfold that way too.

So for now, I will keep tending the gardens, watching the birds, and checking the weather forecast far too often. I will keep looking for signs of life in the woods and in myself.

And I will try not to rush what is coming.

Warmly,