Snowdrops, robins, and Bob Marley
Hello dear plant people, I don’t want to commit to making a whole new season of the podcast, but spring has stirred up so many of my garden feelings, I thought I’d send out a little missive, and this essay recorded in audio, because the garden is waking and so am I. Winter felt especially hard and long this year, my anxiety sometimes a light dusting of snow, other times chest-high drifts. My partner and I have been navigating the complex and ever-changing needs of my beloved cat for almost a year and a half now, and it’s been a challenge. This personal struggle has, of course, taken place against the dystopian backdrop of the wider world: genocide, Trump 2.0, 19 of the last 20 months over 1.5 degrees warming, threats of economic collapse, re-election of a corrupt premier determined to pave the Greenbelt and rip out all our bike lanes, and so much more. In this region February was also ferociously cold, with massive dumps of snow that shovelled reached head-high, and spring seemed like an impossible dream. So this year, more than other years even, I awaited the first snowdrops with near-desperation. I don’t have any in the garden, but I know where they first appear in the neighbourhood, and on my daily mental health walks, I’d check for signs of life.And then March 13th, there they were: a little spray of slender green leaves, sturdy stem a paintbrush with a dollop of white on its bristles. (According to my garden journal, almost a full month after last year’s, though last year’s were eerily early.) It’s often said that snowdrops are thermogenic, which is to say they create their own heat, but that seems to not be necessarily true: they may just absorb more sunlight with their dark leaves amidst the snow. This does that make them any less miraculous in my book. Thus far, I have not been a person who could ever commit to a tattoo, but at this time of year I’m so drunk on spring I could almost rush into a parlour and get emblazoned with this tiny, delicate sign of resilience, of hope in the dark. Seasons are a reminder of eternal change, that nothing gold, or nothing cold, can stay, even when it feels otherwise. And so often, when we’re in our feelings, they feel permanent, as Sophie Lucido Johnson recently graciously shared, “Personally, I regularly think things are the worst they’ve ever been, and I come up with reasons why the thing will feel exactly the same amount of bad for the rest of my life. Nothing feels the same amount of bad for the rest of your life, unless you are going to die very soon.”I was chatting with remarkable botanical artist Kathryn Bondy about snowdrops after she posted a reel of some she’d made, and she asked me what they symbolized for me. I mentioned hope and renewal and resilience, but I think there are even more lessons, like how they form colonies, gently spreading year over year, which is a good reminder of the need for others in times of hardship and times of beauty (and the places they might improbably overlap). I love, too, how they combine strength (arrowing up through hard soil before everything else) and delicacy. I find myself often scanning for parts of my body to soften these days — really I need to be like a snowdrop. I am not a galanthophile, as enthusiastic collectors are called, and I actually don’t care much about the subtle variations in form, or the slightest blush of green or pale yellow. Give me your most common snowdrop and I will worship it with Mary Oliver-like zeal. Just a day or two after their emergence, the first American robin greeted me in the backyard, pecking at the leaf litter below the raspberry canes. Again, I found myself verklempt. I hope it will nest in the yard, raise its clutches here so I will have goofy teen robins to make me smile all summer. Which brings me to Bob Marley, specifically the song “Three Little Birds,” which I’ve been singing to myself as a sort of mantra every day, because I have been trying to imagine things turning out well rather than bracing for the worst. And this sweet, gentle song really brings it home for me. Rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sunThree little birds sit by my doorstepSinging sweet songs of melodies pure and trueSaying, “This is my message to you-ou-ou”Singing, “Don’t worry about a thing’Cause every little thing is gonna be alright”Singing, “Don’t worry about a thing (Don’t worry)’Cause every little thing is gonna be alright!”After this long winter, it’s a song brimming with sunshine. When my grandmother died, just over a decade ago, for some reason I liked to imagine she might come back as a hardy little winter sparrow, chirping from the bushes even on the coldest days. (Especially if she noticed I had neglected to don a hat.) Wouldn’t it be nice if our loved ones became birds, if they landed so gently on our doorstep to tell us “every little thing is gonna be alright”? It may be a comforting thought for those who, like me, pray earthwise. Otherwise this week, I’m . . .Savouring: Apricity, the warmth of the sun in winter. (Yes, it is technically spring, but only just.) The snowdrops, obviously. I also visited the neighbourhood witch hazel and inhaled the sweet scent of its golden, frizzled flowers. The emergence of the hellebores, especially two hastily transplanted at the wrong time from my friend Courtney’s late uncle Dave’s garden last year. My pot of mini daffodils I buy from the greengrocer every spring and then plant in the garden for next year. Tending: I have the first round of seeds under the lights. A geum I had to import, some pansies and snapdragons and sweet peas. Also some peppers, lettuce, golden beets, and peas to give them a jump start when temperatures warm. (Yes, beets! I experimented with Charles Dowding’s multisowing method last year and it worked amazingly well.) It’s too cold to do much beyond pick up litter, clean out equipment storage, and prune raspberry canes. Later today I’ll start my tomato, basil, and marigold seeds. Harvesting: A few young leaves from kale that overwintered, likewise some walking onion greens. It is the hungry season, but there are small pickings to be found. Making: Seed packets for Seedy Saturdays and the seed library box at Karma Co-op.Cross-pollination* I adored this piece from Maria Popova on Nikolai Valivov, the brave Soviet scientist who established the world’s first seed bank and worked tirelessly to improve plant breeding to prevent crop losses and starvation. It is an action-packed and incredibly inspiring tale, well worth ten minutes of attention. I’m not sure what I’ll do with this space this year, if anything. It’s a lot of work to make a podcast solo, even a low-fi one, and I’m helping lead a neighbourhood food growing program and will be joining the Toronto Beekeepers Cooperative, both of which will keep me busy. But in this first swell of spring, I wanted to reach out to say happy spring. I hope this finds you both strong and soft, I hope when things get hard, the birds come to reassure you.xo Jen This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit gardeningoutloud.substack.com
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