On Sunday afternoon after my post-worship nap, I did one of
my favorite things. I sat in the sunny chill of an autumn afternoon and planted
bulbs.
First of all, I pulled up the new-spent salvia and vinca
that had brightened our yard since May. As I shook the loose dirt from their
roots back into the bed, I was amazed at how large the small bedding plants had
become over the summer. I dug a trench in the now-empty bed, spread some bulb
fertilizer, and gathered my bulbs. Being more interested in efficiency than
horticultural snobbery, I had purchased my bulbs at Costco. Therefore, I had a
lot of bulbs to plant.
I spread out the four different types of daffodils in my
trench. I had intended to plant them with generous space between them, but the
sheer number of bulbs I was working with meant that they were snugged up close
to one another. No matter, plants have to be tough to survive in my yard. I
covered them with soil, where they now sit and wait.
Over thirty years ago, I read E.B. White’s description of
his wife planting bulbs one fall. They were both aware that she would likely
not be around to see them bloom in the spring. As he watched her, he penned the
words, “There she was, calmly plotting the resurrection.”
Those words echoed in my head as I knelt in my yard planting
on Sunday. I thought about the winter months ahead. The wooly worms have been
almost entirely black, predicting a long and cold winter. The Farmer’s Almanac
agrees. If you know anything about me, you know that winter is not my favorite
time of year. (Understatement alert!)
Planting bulbs means that I know that there is a cold winter
standing between me and the springtime blooms. If it were up to me, I’d much
rather skip winter entirely. Since it’s not up to me, I’ll plant my bulbs on an
autumn day, plotting the resurrection that will surely emerge after the winter
ahead.
