Planting Bulbs

Planting bulbs, I push down into the dirt. I panic a little as I lift the trowel-- a tinge of fear emerging in my stomach as I lift uncertain dirt.

The sight of worms and scattered roots and fiber welcome my vision into the unknown.  The dirt is moist, clay-like, and difficult to unpack.

Planting bulbs, I set in the bulb and slowly start to cover it with leaves and the unsettled dirt.  I think about the process of digging and then burying.  Unsettling the space and then resettling it with a small seed.

Each bulb has a unique shape and size.  The daffodils were like onions, with their skin peeling away as I pulled them out of the bag with my dirty hand.  The irises were small and tiny, like a spring onion.  The anemones were jagged, brown, and ugly. 

Planting bulbs, I press down the newly settled earth, taking my time to feel the wet clay-like earth.  I have no idea what will emerge from these strange rhizomes.

I can’t help but wonder how these bulbs will attach to the earth and find their way up through the dirt. I hope they understand that they are home as they nestle in for the long cold winter ahead.

The messiness begins

*****

Throughout the planting, I think about how rhizomes find their footing in the clay dirt.  So much has to be right, yet at the same time, these are resilient living things finding a way to survive.  I think about how much there is to learn from these strange small objects.  I intentionally decided to plant bulbs this year as part of my efforts to connect with the seasons in a visceral way. I wanted to feel a tangible connection to what goes on for all of us in the winter—humans and plants alike.  That seemingly dormant turn inward is anything but dormant. There is a lot of work going on deep in that dirt. Rhizomes must find ways to connect to the dirt—must establish a relationship with its surroundings.  There has to be some trust at it goes on to offer itself to the dirt, connect and tie its rhizomatic tentacles to the earth, worms, leaves, and all sorts of darkness.  That inward turn is where those rhizomes do their heavy work. Foundational work. The daffodils, hyacinths, irises, and other flowers become symbolic of my own shift in the season. 

I think about the rush to make sure I planted them all before the storm and cold weather set into the area.  As I planted those bulbs, I thought about my work to organize my own space so that I can turn inward.  Finding that space of trust, so that I can spread my own rhizomatic tentacles into the unknown and embrace the darkness that settles into winter. 

As I spent time with each bulb, touched each with my hand, I could understand the care that is necessary for my own self.  It is a care I don’t often take with myself as I typically try to function the same in the winter as I do in the summer, never understanding why I felt so miserable. I look out at the cold dark world with a level of dread.  But those rhizomes, those rhizomes don’t do that. They understand that this is where they must do the work in order to take root and push up and out into the world once spring arrives. But if they don’t do that work now and throughout the winter, they will not be able to revel in that juicy beauty of air and light and heat. 

I so often fight and kick to recapture the summer months, not understanding that each season needs its respect and honor and my body needs that same respect and honor.  To honor my body is to let it work through the seasons with acceptance as I embrace the changes around me.  To try to control climate and all that is around me is a futile task, one that takes too much energy. 

So, Christina, it’s time to take out the sweaters and the boots and the scarves and the hats, and curl up to drink that warm ginger, clove, nutmeg tea that warms me from the inside out.  And in that warmth, revel in the beauty of the monochromic world that is beginning to surround me.