A bit of chill in the air--nothing like the rest of the country, but still, 50 degrees. So I decided to ditch my plans to run and to stay put, working on online classes and writing projects and baking pumpkin bread.
One of my writing projects is a blog post for the Living Lutheran site, which I said I'd have ready be tomorrow. It's about the feast day of Candlemas, celebrated on February 2. Astute readers will recognize the collision of several different holidays from a variety of traditions: Groundhog Day, Candlemas, St. Brigid's Day, Imbolc and Oimelc. Many of them celebrate the turning of winter to spring.
I realize that major winter weather is forecast soon for much of the country. Surely Spring is far behind?
Yesterday I got a taste of spring when we went to Home Depot. We were buying shrubbery, but I was struck by all the flowers: such variety and such vibrant colors. What a treat. I can't say that my eyes are starved for color: I live in the tropics, after all. But I don't usually see them all clustered together. I see a palm tree here, a bougainvillea bush there, an occasional hibiscus flower, my poinsettia plant which is just now getting more red than green.
We bought our shrubbery, some podocarpus plants which took up the whole back of the car. I felt like I was driving a forest mobile. I had no vision out the rear window, which was oddly soothing.
I am tempted to buy masses of flowers and plant them in pots and move them all around the yard. I think of myself as killing plants, but I don't. They might not flourish the way they would if my spouse was taking care of them or my grandmother. I'm the type who will remember to water, although it may take several days. I keep herbs going for years before a mysterious disease wipes them out. I divide pots of mums and kill half of them, but half of them survive. I thought they were crowded. I didn't realize they'd die of loneliness when I spread them out.
It's time to think about the front porch, but the pumpkins from fall still haven't rotted. I have visions of pots of petunias, but have yet to find them. But half of the transplanted mums survive. For now, I'll just let it all be.