In like a lion …
Most years, March is a fairly tame beast in our neck of the woods. Rainy and windy for sure, but we don’t normally have the whiplash weather that’s standard for our friends to the north. But this year was different.
Mid-March dropped seven inches of snow on our little farm overnight (after a 70-degree high the day before) — burying the daffodils that had just begun to bloom. Our husky loved it, of course. He spent most of the weekend outside burying himself in the snow drifts and running laps around the yard, terrorizing birds that swooped in for easy food from the hanging birdfeeder in the silver maple.
The snow melted away in two days, and the rest of March returned to our regularly-scheduled spring: the forsythia and quince bloomed, daffodils threw up more blooms, the over-wintered brussels sprouts gave up trying to make small sprouts and instead grew broccoli stems. They were delicious, for what it’s worth, even if they were not brussels sprouts.
March always has an excitement, bordering on anxiety, that grows as each day passes. A little more sun, a little more warmth — so much more light and warmth than the dark days of February — but my spring joy is tempered by my growing to-do list. Maybe you relate. I never accomplish as much over the winter as I thought I would. The daffodils’ bloom feels like some kind of starting gun fired, and damn, but I’m already slow off the line. So much to do!
Bird houses to build! Seeds to start! New plants to buy! The solar-powered patio lights to hang! The rest of that couch grass to dig up and burn! The new flower bed to dig!
March days seem short. And in truth, they are. The sun is still stretching. Need proof? Yesterday the high was 68 and today there are seven inches of snow on the ground. These are slow days. They should be slow days. Only I feel rushed. We say spring forward but I try to remember that March is the time to act like a seed: to slowly unwind, to blink away the dark and stretch for the light.
The seeds in the greenhouse are sprouting (except the poppies — what have I done wrong?). The southern jessamine is blooming in the new planters on the patio, scenting the air like a fine vanilla. There’s no hurry.