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Worshippers of Spring

"There's no gardener in the world who does not worship spring like a pagan."

So writes Philippa Gregory in her book Earthly Joys, the story of John Tradescant, a 17th century English gardener to King James I and King Charles I, as well as the rich and famous of England.

If an English gardener could think such thoughts, what then for the Canadian gardener? On this first day of spring, my garden on the shores of Georgian Bay lies beneath three feet of snow. Now, it's true that the days have been lengthening for the past four weeks so that now it's bright by 6:00 am. The birds are beginning to tune up their morning chorus, although the notes are those of crows and jays and cardinals -- and on the shore here, the squawks of gulls, ducks and the first Canada geese, looking for grass, as I do -- fruitlessly.

Under the snow, I imagine the plants nestled against the ground, still holding some warmth from last fall when the first snowfall came early in November. There is an advantage to this -- nothing had a chance to freeze. I imagine the snow melting at ground level, trickling water into the earth, restoring the ground water level which has become dangerously low over the past few years of drought summers. I think of the new plants I dug into the ground in October - the Oriental and Asiatic lilies, the campanula from a friend, the white and red tulips planted near the front door. I long to see one green shoot pushing up through the moist earth, a single sign that all is not dead or dormant. But the snow is an impenetrable mantle over my lawn and all my gardens.

Oh spring, what is the correct prayer, the appropriate offering to help you unlock my garden? Do I shovel the snow off the lawn and onto my cleared drive, as I see many city dwellers do at this time of year? Do I scatter the snow with the petals of spent flowers from the plants I buy all winter long, my way of keeping the spirit of spring in the dead of winter? Do I roll naked in the snow, a sacrifice of my warmth for the cause?

Instead, I tramp to the secret corners of my garden, inspecting the plants which show above the snow level. And there, amidst the droppings of far too many hungry rabbits, I find my flowering crabapple stripped of its bark, my raspberry canes cut to the ground and the upper branches of my prized Japanese maple gnawed in great gashes down the bark. The raspberries and the maple will survive, but I'm not sure about the crab. Again I wonder what incantations I can use to help this poor tree.

However, I also see the snow retreating from the edges of the lawn, around the fence posts, over the septic tank, on the pathway we've used all winter to walk to the shore. And overhead I hear a robin chirping imperiously, the very first of the season. He's puffed up to keep in his warmth, knowing as I do that spring isn't here yet -- but we both believe that it's coming. As worshippers of spring, we make this leap of faith.

Judy Thomson lives, faithfully, on the beautiful shores of Georgian Bay.