I don't know about you, but I am always anxious for spring. As soon as February shuts its door, I am ready to greet pussy willows, primroses, and pansies. At the garden center, clerks annually remind me that a long or especially cold snap can kill even hardy cold-weather flowers. I know, but I can't help myself.
My winter wreath is packed in its box, and a circle of forsythia and pussy willows hangs in its place.
Ceramic snowballs are encased in their container, and the spring flowers bloom their place.
Inside my snowflake candle holders and snowmen are tucked into their bubble-wrap blankets. Now monochromatic eggs nest in a pottery bowl.
The cyclamen on the dining room table sprouts pussy willow shoots.
In the kitchen, an angel at an empty tomb announces, "He is not here; he has risen as he said." This tableau focuses attention on the meaning of the season: New life was bought at a terrible price offering the humble recipient forgiveness instead of guilt and hope instead of fear. What a reason to celebrate!
No wonder I look forward to the coming-to-life of all things bright and beautiful. Let's hope the ground hog was right, and we are destined for an early spring.
Edward Bulmer’s English Country House
9 hours ago