It was a couple of months ago that I passed a display of garden bulbs. Hyacinths. Narcissus. Crocus. Tulips. I couldn’t resist. I bought a couple of packages of each. I have spent the weeks since moving them from the front door to the back door to the side door. Always meaning to get them planted and always finding an excuse why I couldn’t. Now that the days are short and the nights are getting frosty I knew it had to be done.
This morning I spent a couple of hours out in my garden digging holes and burying bulbs. Fingers crossed the squirrels don’t find them before the blanket of snow insulates them deep in frozen ground. It seems so counter-intuitive to plant in November when the earth is starting to seize up and go into hibernation. It seems unrealistic to think those hard, dry brown lumps will turn into colourful harbingers of spring and signs of life when the snow melts.
Bulbs are often used as a metaphor for resurrection. No surprise there. How can something that looks so dead bear life after entombed in frozen soil? But every spring the miracle happens. So in November, we plant in faith, trusting in the miracle of creation and earthly energy to turn those bulbs into glorious flower bringing delight to passers by.
Creation is amazing.
