But what a strange March.
It’s been hot and summery this week, and we’ve left the back door open to the play of breeze and birdsong. When Iris is fussy, all I have to do is step outside and she instantly quiets, ears straining at the unfamiliar sounds, eyes squinched up in the blazing light.
Too bad I can’t carry her around the back yard and take a nap at the same time. I’m a good multitasker, but even I haven’t figured that one out yet.
Lawn lounge chairs? Hammock?
I’m working on it.
Speaking of irises, it turns out we have four big wheels of them in the front garden. I’m curious to see what colors and types they are. Right now they’re just little green spears shooting out of the earth. According to my idle googling, irises usually bloom in June in our zone—although with their jumpstart this year it might be more like May—but either way it looks like we’ll have to wait a while to find out what we’ve got growing.
The shrubs along the fence are starting to leaf too. I still don’t know what they are. My mom said maybe Rose of Sharon about the middle one, but it’s still too early to say for sure.
And the tangle of canes at the bottom of the garden—whether blackberry or raspberry I don’t know—are putting out their starburst leaves.
I love this part of the year. The beauty is so delicate and tiny, so easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. My life has become incredibly concentrated lately. I barely leave the house, and when Iris is settled for a nap then it’s time to clean enough dishes for dinner or help Carl shower or make doctor’s appointments or otherwise manage this strange, unfamiliar life we’re living now.
I haven’t even started really working on the garden, but I’m already enjoying the enormous benefits of having one. A green place. A breathing space. A patch of earth to watch and notice and plan for.
So good for the soul.