Hope When You Needed Hope

the gifts of early spring

I caught my first glimpse of hope from the window of the 38 bus.

This winter has been difficult and long. The news of the world has been anxiety-inducing, with no end in sight. A solid 50% of my sense of wellbeing comes from time spent walking outside, and here in Southern New England—where January and February brought us darkness and snow with icy winds and freezing temperatures—the layers of iced-over slush made walking on anything other than a shoveled sidewalk difficult at best. I resigned myself to taking the bus to the subway those mornings, my normal walking time, though I longed to feel the earth beneath my feet.

Then one dark morning, at the end of February, as my bus idled at a red light near the Arnold Arboretum, I caught a flash of yellow, bright and shaggy, peeking over a brick wall. My heart leapt. The witch hazel was blooming! 

Is there anything more hopeful than a yellow flower blooming while the ground is still crusted over with ice?

The following day I pulled on waterproof boots and a pair of Yaktrax  and marched up one of my favorite paths of the Arboretum, past the shagbark hickories and the Osage orange, to see the witch hazel up close. Its streamer-like petals had curled back up—the temperature had dropped since the day before, and the sky was no longer sunny—but it didn’t matter. The yellow petals were still visible, and I could catch a faint whiff of their sweet scent when I pressed my nose to the blossoms. I felt something relax deep within me. Spring is on its way.

The witch hazels that provide a much-needed boost of cheer in late winter, with their yellows, oranges, and even purples!, originate from Japan and China. There is a witch hazel native to New England, Hamamelis Virginiana, but it blooms in the late fall.

Winter has a funny way of making me feel suspended, as if, despite my perfectly warm apartment, I too, am frozen under a blanket of ice. But of course, no matter what the season, everything is always moving and changing. Witch hazel serves as a reminder of this. Witch hazel shouts wake up! It invites us to lift our eyes up from the ground (or our phones) despite the cold wind, and to pay attention to the world around us. 

Soon the landscape will be full of flowering trees and birdsong. Don’t get me wrong—it’s glorious!—but I secretly love the more subtle signs of early spring the best. The blooming witch hazel reminds me that spring is almost here. I don’t want to miss the end of winter: the last opportunities to admire the silhouettes of bare trees before they leaf out, the last chance to memorize where all the nests are, the last moments to appreciate the quiet that hangs in the air before the world becomes cozy and lush. Don’t forget to take in the silence, witch hazel whispers. Don’t miss the unfolding.

Now it is mid-March, and those subtle signs of spring are EVERYWHERE. The Vernal Equinox is just a week away. The witch hazel is now blooming in its full glory. The stems of the weeping willows in the Public Garden have turned a golden yellow, and they glow in the warmth of the strengthening afternoon sun.

A downy owl feather the size of my palm floats in the breeze, maybe from a female who has plucked her brood patch to keep her eggs warm. The northern cardinals who nest in the thick shrubs that line my driveway sing their hearts out on the telephone wires at sunrise. All traces of ice have melted, and the earth is soft when I step off the concrete. A pair of red-tailed hawks ride thermals above my bus stop, in what looks to me like courtship. The little streams that had been bone dry in autumn are now rushing with water. A nest-building house finch pauses on the fence with a curly piece of straw in its beak. All reminders that we can begin again. That we can keep going. That we can make something new.

These days, I sit in the dark in the early mornings, drinking coffee by the window, waiting to hear the first dawn chorus of the season. The robins in my yard have not yet begun to sing, but I have hope. I know that the song is coming. That this is just the very beginning of the sweetest season, of growth and renewal. I don’t want to miss a single moment.

With love and hope,

Your friend,

Louise

I’d love to hear what signs of early spring you are seeing in your neighborhood—share in the comments below!

Boston friends, if you would like to see (and smell!) witch hazel at its high point, this weekend is probably your last, best chance! The Arnold Arboretum has a witch hazel walk (just ask at the visitor’s center for a guide.) There are also spectacular Witch Hazels in the Boston Public Garden in full bloom, along Beacon St and Arlington St.

Reference Recommendation: Vermont Naturalist Mary Holland’s Naturally Curious is a new England Phenologist’s DREAM. Organized by month, the field guide covers every aspect of the natural world, and what to look for as the seasons change. I have learned so much by reading this book and look forward every month to reading about the weeks ahead! Naturally Curious focuses on New England, but I think anyone living or traveling on the East Coast will enjoy this guide.