This was the scene that greeted us on the Saturday marsh/woods dog walk this past weekend. Pleasant, it was, especially with the impending doom of temperatures near 19 degrees and snow in the next day or two: typical New England. But rather than dwell on that (after all, no one I know has put away scarves or hats or leg warmers), I’d like to think again about how those budding bushes looked as we walked along the path. At the time, it reminded me of searching for constellations. Often when you try to gaze directly at the stars, or even search outside for a black dog on a pitch black night, you can’t see as well as when you look off to one side and let your peripheral vision be queen. That’s how it was with this sheen of green: tiny buds that isolated were very small, but taken together in a wide view, displayed the vision of spring right before our eyes.
Today’s blog title was suggested by my husband as we strolled up the path and through the wood. To him one of the miracles is that this small beginning will take off full throttle, resulting in what will be a full display of exuberant growth in a few weeks. For me, the miracle is that this tiny beginning dares to present itself again and again as each winter ends. It’s like the tide that comes in and goes out, set by and following an ancient rhythm so much older and deeper than ourselves. These are daily, slow and dependable processes in a world where our present days and doings can seem ever the more unpredictable, unknowable, less secure.
Now I steam into Boston on the Monday morning train and look out over snow dappled pastures, horses in blankets and a grey sky that does promise snow. But no worries. Everyone is dressed for success against what the weather will throw at us and soon this view, too, will be a panorama of warm color as nature awakes fully and puts her spring garments on. It’s a joy to see that sheen of green takes its place, filling the in-between spaces left by the evergreens and bringing flower to woody stems and winter weary souls. It’s also a joy to pull my coat back on right here in the train seat, and get ready for what lies down the rails ahead. It’s also a joy that the book in my backpack today is called….Frozen Spring !
 Stever, Margo. 2002. Frozen spring: poems. Minneapolis: Mid-List Press.