It’s been a tough Spring. Reluctant. Secretive. I tried to escape the East Coast and went to Sedona, Arizona, only to discover that it sleets there. In April. But slow as it is, Spring is being dragged into my yard by the bulbs I planted last fall. The grape hyacinths popped up purple and are now dropping seeds. The magic narcissus unfolded, one green blade at a time, and greeted me when I came home with a ring of white around the crepe myrtle, which is setting leaves. The lilies are coming up like bush green gnomes. In summer, they will burst with color and scent.

The lavender I planted too early is tough and is sitting in three little separate mounds, waiting for next year to grow bigger. (According to garden lore, the first year it sleeps, the second it creeps, the third it leaps.)

The mint is up and fighting for space, a sure sign that Spring won’t be held back.

The backyard pear tree is showing tiny green pears, the size of a pencil eraser, except on the edges of the branches, where a late, hard freeze froze off the blossoms.

Nature is a school for me. The lessons are not always soft and gentle, but they are always worth learning. I love being outside this time of year. Nothing is boring. It is all so alive.

Right now, life feels like a prayer. Everywhere I look, I feel grateful for surviving the winter. And in my tradition, there is a blessing for that: Blessed are you, creator of the Universe, for having kept us alive, for sustaining us, and for having us arrive again at this season in the cycle of the year.