Last Saturday, I planted over 100 spring bulbs (to add to the hundred or so daffodils and tulips I already have). I planted: narcissus, crocus, and hyacinth bulbs.

We have about 1.5 acres of property–most of it is wooded, but here and there we have spots for shade plants and one mess of a “garden” (the previous owners had tried to create a small pond by the looks of it–which is a horrible idea in prime mosquito country. I have since filled it in and planted over it). Some of the bulbs I planted in expected places. For instance, we will be able to see the crocus from the kitchen window–this will be nice. Others, I planted in flowerless spots, wild tangles I’ve been beating back and taming.

My husband is amused that something which takes such long planning and such patience pleases me. He knows I like to know how things are going to turn out. That I’m something of a control freak. That I work on fastforward.

But for this case, when it is about nurturing, about growing, about waiting until you are your most strong before you reveal yourself, I’m all about patience. All winter long I will think of the bulbs, imagine them warm beneath the earth in the beds which I prepared for them. Imagine their tender shoots pushing up through the cold ground. Some of them will be a surprise to me as I will have forgotten where I planted them.

Instead of being a hindrance, patience will now be a comfort to me. At night when I cannot sleep listening to the wind, I will think of the narcissus blooming in batches on the hill out by the mailbox.

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