Hope Springs Eternal

     As I walk the Acres the last week before Old Man Winter takes the stage, I am immersed in an unusual feeling--hope.  Yep, hope.  A Ripley's moment, eh?  The skies are mostly gray, the ground is soaked, cold is in the air, most everything is dormant.  Where does the hope come from?
     First, the dry summer has been countered by a wetter than normal fall.  Hopefully, whatever damage the semi-drought may have inflicted has been reversed by the many rains of autumn 2012.  The pond is full to overflowing much to the pussy willow's delight.  The low areas are under water, but I prefer Cummings conclusion--"the world is puddle-luscious"--to any negative thoughts.  The rain will seep into the ground and provide impetus for next year's growth.  And my weather-proof boots keep my feet dry so that's not a problem.  (What?  Of course, I always slosh through the puddles just to make sure.)  The bog, too, is boggish again--again, a good thing in my opinion.  The plants and seeds that are lovers of moist, wet sites are settling in to "home" as they know it.  All that gives me hope for a beautiful spring.  I am also hoping for our first good snow at the end of the week, a warm blanket for the cold that's sure to come.
     Amazingly, some of last year's "hope" is still blooming.  I know, another Ripley's.  Several snapdragons are still blooming--red, yellow, orange, white.  One small patch of lilac alyssum is still blooming in a planter.  And there are a few hot pink buttercups blooming in several places.  Who knew some buttercups weren't yellow?  These colorful beauties are free to hang on for as long as they want.  Let's hope so anyway.  For you flower lovers who are jealous--my heart bleeds for you. (Ha!)
     My imagination also gives me hope.  I'm imagining what the cold, wet winter will do to revive my dormant trees and shrubs when the warmth of March adds the last growth ingredient and "life" comes back again.  I have no doubt that they will all spring into action and grow magnificently.  Some will finally reach a level of maturity that will allow them to bloom for the first time.  Some will just continue their rise toward the skies.  A wet, cold winter is essential for a lovely spring.  I, also, imagine that the bulbs are already mixing their paints so that they can colorize my world next year from March to October.  As if to stimulate my hopes and tempt me into "too soon" expectations, a few daffodils have already poked through the soil and checked out the future.  Some crocus, grape hyacinth, and Dutch iris do that every year.  But though they are expected, they do add to the hopeful feeling.
     The wild area is brown and dead.  Well, the paths have a little green.  And the brambles' branches are red.  But everything else is just dead.  So, where's the hope?  Seeds.  Many of the plants are still hanging on to theirs waiting for a few more storms to let go.  Many of them have already thrown the next generation onto the soil.  The coneflowers show signs of having provided some snacks for the sparrows of the field.  Here's hoping, as they usually do, that they play their role as winged gardeners and start a new patch of coneflowers for next summer.  I, of course, have thrown my own seeds into the area with hopes of a bountiful harvest.  And my gardening angels always having something "up their sleeves."
     I guess, it all depends on your outlook.  I could walk the Acres and think, "I'd better go reread Genesis and make sure there won't be another flood."  Or I could muse, "everything is dead and dormant; there is no hope."  But my experience tells me that none of that negativity is true.  "Hope springs eternal"--it really does.  Perhaps the skies help.  Even on the cloudiest, gray days there is usually a break in the cover and behold! a patch of blue emerges, and the sun's invisible yellow rays prance around the Acres.  No matter how thick the clouds, the sky and the sun are just waiting above them, knowing their chance will come when they can break through the darkness and bring the warmth that will bring renewal to the plants of Iten's Acres.  Sooner than you think--or imagine--or hope.  Guaranteed.  Fulfilled hope is the reward of patience, you know.  And at those moments of brightness, I always reflect on Vincent van Gogh.  To him, blue symbolized the mysterious and the infinite.  Yellow, his favorite color, symbolized the presence of sacred love.  God's blues and yellows are always there, always active, just waiting for the best moment.  Yes.  Behind the gray, He is always there, and He loves to remind us of His presence.  He is the God of hope. 
     I wish Vincent or one of his proteges could stop by next year and paint some of my daffodils.  The yellow ones--on a background of blue skies.  I can hope, can't I?

Serenity

Walking the Acres at the onset of December there is a sense of serenity about the place.  All is at rest.  The Sentinel still stands unaffected by any season.  Every year at least one huge limb comes crashing down so its gnarlyness is slowly decreasing.  But it is still impressive and fearless in its slow decline to the way of the world.  The bees at the top are silent and retired for the year.  I'm sure if I could fly to the top of the tree, I could hear a low hum resonating in the tree, but being wingless, I can only imagine.  I can, I suppose, hum and sing as I walk.  Actually, as a crazy old man, I do that anyway; I'll just pretend I'm talking to the bees.  They won't hear me, so I won't face any musical harmonic criticism from the experts.
I love to sit on the bench by the pond this time of year.  The rains of autumn have refilled the pond.  The muskrat has moved back in for the winter.  Maybe it's a mink.  I really don't know.  The only evidence is the hole it has dug near the flower garden by the pond.  (Last year, that produced a tragedy as the outlaws in an attempt to catch the creature dug up the garden.  I hope that doesn't happen again this year.  It would not add to the serenity.)  There are slivers of ice on the surface of the pond some mornings as winter sends notice that it is on the way.  Some mornings there is a mist rising from the water reminiscent of the old tarns mentioned in an old Poe story or two. (Think "The Fall of the House of Usher.")    But it is not a haunting feeling here at the Acres.  Only peace and serenity are allowed under the watchful eye of the Sentinel.
The only obvious activity this time of year is near the house.  Those pesky squirrels are up early gathering walnuts and hickory nuts--and probably a tulip bud or two.  They run for the thickets when I come near.  They have learned that there is no safety in the branches of the trees.  I'll bet that if I could walk through the thickets in spring, I would find a transplanted tulip or two gracing the wildness.  I can live with that imagining.  A small kudos to the varmints.  The other busy-bodies by the house are the birds at Mom's window feeder.  Coming and going, coming and going are the chickadees, titmice, woodpeckers, and nuthatches.  The goldfinch, Cardinals, siskins, and purple finches sit and munch.  The field sparrows, song sparrows, chipping sparrows, and snowbirds scour the patio for "crumbs."  There must be some.  They keep coming back.  On colder days when I'm sure the chipmunks are staying in, I'll even throw a little on the ground for the scourers.  Mom enjoys watching them, but her memory is such that she has at times forgotten their names.  She used to know them all by heart, but sometimes as we grow older, I guess the mind trumps the heart.  Not that I mind reminding her of who the visitors are.  Repeating the words "chickadee," "nuthatch," "snowbird," is not a tedious exercise in the least.  Musical words if you say them right.  Hum them if you can! The Homesteader, by the way, enjoys spending the mornings with Mom, basking in the sun, tail moving back and forth imagining how much fun it would be to get back outside and chase the winged company.  (For those who just know me here on the blog, the Homesteader is now a permanent member of the household.  I should change her name to "Boss."  Yes, I am a soft touch.)  The activity of the birds, believe it or not, adds to the serenity of the place.  Movement can be beautiful--a dance of the birds is such a beauty.
As I walk through the stand of trees and then through the back meadow and wild area, all is quiet.  The only raucous color is green.  The wind is still there.  On the windiest days the neighbor's pines hum.  Otherwise all is silent, serene.  There are plenty of signs of deer, but I have not seen them.  I imagine they are checking me out from the safety of the brush or the pine forest.  Camouflaged, they feel secure hiding in plane sight.  With no leaves I can see through everything; and yet, no doubt, miss many things.  I do not mind.  Often, I just sit on the green throne, bask in the grey skies, imbibe the quietness, embrace the breeze, find serenity in the pastoral splendor of my neighbor's goats and alpaca grazing serenely next door.
Yes, the Acres are at rest.  And I enjoy participating in the wonder.