So the other day I was talking to someone about having brought some bulbs with me to the house I’ve moved to, the usual suspects– hyacinths, daylily, daffodils, and some not-so-usual– candy cane sorrell, star gazer lilies, orchid iris, and that they were just coming out of dormancy. They had small, pale green leaf buds sprouting from the tops of the bulbs which actually is helpful for me to determine the root from the flower end. Sometimes it’s not so easy. But since they’d begun to awaken I knew I needed to put them in the ground pretty quickly. “Why?” my friend asked. I said that with no soil around the bulb for the roots to grow in it would feed off of itself. Not many things more frustrating than opening a box of mixed bulbs late winter to find dessicated, shriveled pulpy masses with wilting greenish leaf blades.
Still, it made me think. Here we are (parts of the world anyway), mid-winter when most everything is asleep, or moving very, very slowly. And the new year is upon us. Harbinger of hope, new beginnings, an awakening, opportunity for change, new directions or a reinforcing of changes already begun. When everything is still for the most part sleeping.
In the silence, this grey-dark stillness transformation begins. Things are not as still as they seem. Cell mitosis happens, bacteria and fungi swarm over dead tree limbs creating new earth. Grubs lie silent under the earth’s surface waiting to emerge and begin their new life. Things are not teeming yet, but the anticipation is such that we nearly hear it before it arrives.
Nothing is ever truly still, nothing is ever completely wasted. Something happens. Some transformation, an order out of destruction.