Uncurling and Unfurling
Might consider blooming later.
(Image note: Previously in my posts, I have made use of AI-generated images. As the number of Substack users has increased, AI image use has become increasingly frowned upon. Henceforth, human-created images will be favored over AI in this newsletter.)
Typically, I busy myself in the winter with creative projects and busy work, something ongoing to keep my hands and my mind in some focused motion. By March, I usually climb the walls, bursting to get outdoors, rattled with pent-up energy. Not so this season.
I think I spent this winter in shock. For the most part, I worked (I’m an online tutor), started watching NCIS for the first time, doomscrolled, and slept. No projects, no painting, no remodeling, no pipe dreams. Just recovery and recouperation from what has become American life. I crawled into my comfortable cave and buried myself in blankets and quilts. Done.
I have spent much of the winter thinking, “This too shall pass, I think. I’ll have a better mindset come spring. Maybe.” I placed my faith there, knowing historically, in my life, spring came with motivation and happy thoughts.
And I am not, this spring, climbing the walls, anxious to bound outside. But, I do feel myself unfurling and uncurling. Instead of a childlike leap of joy (“Yay! Spring!”), I feel more like an underground flower bulb warmed and watered for the first time in months (“Oh, thank goodness. I thought I might be dead.”).
Yes, I believe I am sprouting again, the power of spring enough to breathe life back into me. This is no guarantee I will bloom this summer.
While many tulip varieties are perennials and can bloom year after year, some modern hybrids are bred for a single season bloom. Tulips need to store enough energy in their bulbs over winter to support flowering come spring. Factors like insufficient sunlight or nutrient deficiencies discourage the bulb from blooming again.
I have several tulips in my garden that have bloomed only once. In spring, they produce a leaf or two to remind me they exist, and then a rabbit or deer wanders by and nibbles the fronds down to nubbins. I have tulips in my gardens — and they may, or may not, bloom again some day.
Gardeners know: there are all kinds of factors that will stunt plant growth and production. These include nutrient deficiencies, water issues (too much or too little), temperature extremes, insufficient light, pests, and diseases.
A spring with too much rain (like last year), or with impeded sunlight (due to wildfire smoke), or late season frosts, blight, acid rain (from chemical-toting train wrecks), drought, brown marmorated stink bugs… The conditions for stunted growth are plentiful and increasing. The best any gardener can do is attempt to compensate somehow.
It is the same for humans. Some years, the conditions are just right, and we grow and prosper and produce bountiful harvests. Some years, we may only manage a leaf or two, chomped down fast and quick by a passing rabbit. No bright red bloom this year, nor for many seasons past — but maybe next year.
Before long, the lush and drooping fronds of the day lilies will bush out and cover the stubs of the tulip leaves — erasing the tulip until this time next year.
That’s not much of a life for the tulip. But it isn’t dead, and there is a sliver of hope that perhaps, some spring in the future, it will bloom again.
I’m feeling like a tulip bulb this spring. I am relieved to find I can sprout and might stretch out a few leaves. But I have no misconceptions about blooming this year in this environment. It might happen, you never know, but I kinda doubt it. There are a lot of rabbits out there this season, chomping and cutting and creating general chaos.
I don’t think I would mind spending the summer in the shade beneath the lily fronds, visited by fat toads, slimy slugs, and other common creepy-crawlies.
To bloom or not to bloom? That isn’t the question. The question is if the conditions are right for growth, if the current environment is enough to produce a blossom. Conditions are uncertain.
I’m just relieved to find myself sprouting.
Might consider blooming later.