A softness to peony season

Spring seems to have been our shortest season this year. As soon as the snow went out of the landscape, green appeared. And yet now we’re already on the other side of spring into summer. We’ve had days of record-setting heat and humidity in the past week – a true reminder that June weather can bring just about anything.

The peonies in my garden burst into a riotous bloom a few weeks ago. There were shades of pink, red, magenta, maroon, white, and even a lovely coral. This is the one time of year I wish for no rain. May and June rains tend to be downpours, with raindrops falling hard through the sky and pelting any flower petals. This year we missed some of the heaviest rain, and the peony blossoms remained and came into full bloom.

I’m lucky to have some plants that are from my mother and father’s yard in Kansas. They’ve adjusted to our Minnesota weather, and I especially enjoy seeing those particular peonies come into bloom. My parents referred to peonies as “memorial flowers.” In Kansas they hoped the peonies would bloom right before Memorial Day so they could pick arm loads of them to place on the grave sites of family and relatives. I’ve since learned that tradition came after the Civil War when peonies were placed on the graves of fallen soldiers on what was then called Decoration Day. It was (and is still) a small gesture, but the remembrance and commitment is so much larger.

Awash in spring color

There is a lovely palette of colors in our landscape now. The rains and the sunshine have encouraged all the plants and flowers to burst into bloom and fullness. And with light winds the colors seem to dance before our eyes.

My garden is filled with this lovely orange and yellow columbine. The first plant was a transplant from my mother-in-law’s garden near their lake house. The columbine have multiplied and spread, and now stand tall and full in my garden. Behind is a stand of large lupines. These too were a gift from a dear friend who shared the lupine seeds. It took a couple of years for the plants to produce their lovely blue and purple blooms, but quickly they have spread and provide a lovely backdrop to the columbine.

A few days ago I awoke to an early, cool morning with the promise of a warm day ahead. Gradually the sun cleared the house and it’s brightness flooded the gardens. The birds chirped, a soft wind started to rustle, and I enjoyed a magical few hours surrounded by color and song in the garden.

Spring green

And with the flip of a switch we’ve moved into spring, with it’s lovely shades of bright green. We’ve had heat and sun, cool and rain – everything needed to promote the trees to leaf out, the grass to grow, and the flowers to push up through the ground. It’s a time filled with birdsong, from before dawn to after dusk. The warblers are moving through, the Baltimore orioles have stopped at the oranges we’ve offered, the robins are building nests, the whippoorwills are singing at night, and we’ve even seen some fluffy goslings.

Before long the calendar pages will change, the heat and humidity of the long summer days will arrive, and just as quickly the days will once again start getting shorter. But I’m way ahead of myself now, and I try to remind myself to enjoy this spring – the shortest season of the year.

Awakening from winter

We appear to have turned the proverbial corner from winter to spring. It was not a straight-line trajectory, but it was a snowstorm followed by a warm up and then a cycle of repeat a few times. My attention has been on other things the past few months, and my photography has taken a back seat to those concerns. But it’s never far from my mind, and when I’m “out in the world” and a scene presents itself to me, it sometimes cannot be ignored.

This was the case this past Easter morning. The world was quiet and still before dawn. The air was cold as the temperatures had dropped below freezing overnight. Yet there was the promise of warmth from the sun. I watched as the eastern horizon slowly awakened to the most beautiful shades of blue, rose, and gold. As the light started to glow, there was a cacophony of sounds – turkeys gobbling across the opposite shore, Canada geese honking in the bay to the south, and ducks quacking as they flew towards the shore and then swept back into the air. It was as if a chorus was announcing the arrival of Easter and of spring. And maybe this was the final turning from winter to spring.

Structure in the snow

This has been a hard week. My mind has been anything but calm, and the “news of the world” has not been kind. Sleepless nights and fits of anxiety have not helped.

The other morning I awoke to a fresh layer of snow on the ground. For most winters that would not be unusual, but this year the winter precipitation has favored a track around us. The meager snow has been icy and anything but photogenic. But this new snow had softened the immediate world around me. There was a layer of white covering the grass and lying gently on the pine trees. Even these allium heads welcomed the bits of snow in their centers, cupping it around the delicate stems. I marveled at the intricacy of the seed heads and their ability to weather and stand up to the winter winds and storms. Bravely they stand as a testament to summer and fairer weather.

It was a welcome relief to spend time with the alliums and the fresh snow. I forgot about the “outside world” and focused on the “news of the heart” – the sturdiness and resilience of nature.