When the driving rain of the early May storm abated, I woke to a world thoroughly sogged. But the sun was out and I could almost hear the grass growing. This meant one thing: time for a beauty hunt. Plunging my feet into rubber boots, I waded, a little wearily, into the post-storm valley.
Spring always begins in these waterlogged places, sprouting green from ditches awash in runoff, then spreading through the mud and glinting litter of winter-tossed beer cans. By now it’s reached the tall wooden power pole in the front yard, where a few stray daffodils have burst into bloom, smiling widely at the sun. “Look!” they shout in frilled yellow dresses, twirling in the wind. “Look and laugh, the storm is over and it’s our turn to shine!”
What other flowers can I find this early?
Our small marsh is still completely swamped, but on the edge near the speckled alders I see the almost neon green of marsh marigold leaves. I squelch closer for a good look. Buds clustered in the centre of the plant are swelling like so many near-term bellies, but it’s not quite time for their hue and cry.
Up the bank and near the old chicken shed my favourite daffodil plant is also singing gold, though it faces north. I’ve been waiting for this. It has no public ministry, but a valuable service to the few scramblers on this side of the shed. I seek it out every year, and we whisper lines of Wordsworth back and forth. I know it in my inward eye, and our shared solitude holds a quiet bliss.
Next I tramp the muddy lane into our patch of woods. I’ve never planted flowers back here, though ivy tangles down the hill from a hundred year old garden next door and mingles with the moss on the roadbed. The birches are holding their buds tight, the path is still trodden brown, but down near the river where high winds toppled the spruces a few years ago, little shoots mark the places where bluebead lily will pop up later this month.
I push the sprawling, naked branches of a beaked hazelnut out of my way, still dripping, but then stop mid shove, startled by a tiny burst of fuchsia. Bending the droopy limb toward my face, I’m met with a delicate, almost imperceptible beauty. Here at the tip of the branch is the miniature wonder of the female hazelnut flower. Its stigmas are like deep pink feathers of a fairy tale bird emerging from a scaly shell. It’s almost too small to be true. Gently I brush a fingertip to the bloom and murmur my praise.
These flowers may be tiny, but their size has nothing to do with their maturity. The beaked hazelnut hidden here is as fully blossomed as the flashy daffodils visible from the road. Both are as saturated with colour as their seed-script intended, open to the pollination of wind and newly wakened bee, ordered to their purpose of producing fine and fitting fruit, and later on, more seeds.
On this particular day in May, each is in full bloom, each singing its irreplaceable part in the symphony of spring. I can’t tell which I love more after the dark and stormy night. They both fill a space in my sun-starved soul.
This is good news for the valley, and for us too, growing in our Creator’s world. The wisdom of God has ordained both kinds of beauty, the shout and the whisper. The love of God has dispersed both kinds of ministry, the front yard and the back woods. The kingdom of God spreads through every heart flung open to the wind of the Spirit.
If you’re a daffodil this spring, thank you for shining. Thank you for pulling us out of bed and serving up a brimming cup of joy. You make this season bright. If you’re a beaked hazelnut in a secret forest corner, thank you for delighting the few that seek and find you. Your coveted nut will give rich food in a season yet to come.
Keep blooming, friends of the valley. You are perfectly placed, summoned to sing or dance or murmur or shout in emerald and fuchsia and gold. Look up—the sweet, spring wind is blowing.
Let everything that has bloom praise the Lord.
Yours along the river,
Lindsey
What kind of flower do you feel like this season? The cheerful, incorrigible daffodil? The shy but stunning hazelnut? Or perhaps the still-waiting, waterlogged marsh marigold? There’s room for all of us in the valley… and it wouldn’t be the same without you.
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You are just small enough to tuck in the corner of my inward eye, a blink of fuchsia, and I am beholden to your secret garden for every spring hereafter.
Do you know a person who, like a daffodil or a hazelnut blossom, has brought a unique beauty or kindness or joy to your life? Why not thank them today—send one special person a quick note of gratitude, or forward this post and let them know what kind of bloom they have been in your world.
(And a special thank you to all of you who read and comment and share in my small wonder. When I know my words have reached you by the grace of God and the internet, my heart blooms happy.)
Share this post with a friend to say thanks or send encouragement.
Find my most recent video Dandelion Wing here, and the newest post recapping my April Poetry in the Field Challenge here!
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