Waiting, in the cold, cold ground

I was going to begin this post with the quote from Martin Luther about planting an apple tree today, even if he knew the world was going to end tomorrow. I went on an internet search for the exact quote and found, as one does with these sorts of things, that there's no evidence Luther ever said or wrote this. It can't be found in his writings. Instead, according to the first page or two of Google hits, the first evidence of the saying comes from 1944 and the German Confessing Church, an expression of hope in the face of the Nazi regime. 

I thought of this saying yesterday while digging holes for tulip bulbs, 40 of them, plus some more holes for a scattering of hyacinths and snowdrops. The bulbs arrived at my house by mail two or three weeks ago. I ordered them last spring after receiving a series of emails with photos of brightly colored spring flowers and all manner of tulip colors and variations. They're no fools these marketing folk. You drive around town and see stands of tulips in people's front yards and dream of sprucing up your own landscape. Beyond the PayPal payment, there's no cost to ordering freely from what you see. Bulbs are properly planted in the fall. They're not shipped until the ground is growing cold, and then, if you want the flowers in the spring, you have to spend some time outside grubbing in the dirt. Or be embarrassed for your failure to get them in the ground. 

The box of tulips, hyacinths and snowdrop (very early tiny white flowers) sat in my kitchen for a week or more, along with another box of Dutch iris also ordered on impulse last spring. They were supposed to be kept in a cool place until planting, so I moved them to the table by the back door, a temperature drop of five degrees or so. I planted the dozen irises and half the hyacinths and snowdrops in the backyard ten days ago, tucked in and amongst the herbs and perennials by the patio and the fence. This is dirt that gets worked in the spring, so it's not terribly hard to dig holes four to six inches deep. I mostly remember what went where, some of them near patches of daffodils planted last year, or longer ago than that. 

But the tulips were destined for the street side of my house, in the open spaces around the forsythia bushes, in an area thoroughly overgrown with tall weeds. I paid landscapers to clear it out for me, an acknowledgment that it was a) a big job and b) something that despite a summer of good intentions I was never going to do myself. Yesterday, after a look at my phone said that the weather was about to get much chillier, I got the shovel and the trowel and the bulb planter out of the garage and went at it. The dirt was wet and there were roots everywhere, but I got it done. There's no immediate reward, other than no longer having that task hanging over my head. Nothing left to do but look for the shoots next April. 

I think that I am wired for hope, for optimism. This isn't necessarily a good thing -- it would be more realistic to be, well, more realistic. People will be hurt by the upcoming changes in Washington, people who don't have the resources that I do. And, I believe, abstract but important concepts such as truth and compassion have already taken a big hit. 

But where are the bulbs buried? The ones that will blossom pink and yellow in the spring? 

While digging holes yesterday, I occasionally encountered bulbs planted in previous years. It looks like I go back to the same spots, the same bare, cold places from one fall to the next. I took care to get those guys back in the ground, proven winners that they are. And now, before I eat breakfast, I'm going to check the Christmas cactus for new buds.