Snowdrops: Hopeful, Solitary Firstlings

We are walking a woodland trail along Pequea Creek, a pastoral stream that rises east of Paradise and wends its way across almost fifty miles of Pennsylvania countryside before spilling into the Susquehanna River southeast of here. Despite cerulean blue sky arching above a tangle of barren branches, the morning air holds February chill, and the wayside palette remains spare and subdued, duo-chromatic brown and gray. As our path gently turns with the creek, however, we spot a cluster of Galanthus nivalis nestled against a heavy fallen limb— common snowdrops arrayed in a beguiling, out-of-place bouquet amidst untidy detritus of winter forest floor. At first glance and thought, slender green leaves and dainty white bell-flowers are indeed incongruous with the season's landscape and yet— across miles and many winters— we've learned that snowdrops bloom where they belong and when they're meant to be. We've witnessed them bowing to cold gray rain and rising through powder-dust snow in winter wood, pausing in the stillness of crystalline ice or sway-dancing with north wind in desolate gardens— and now, gathering on a crisp, clear morning by a meandering creek. 

We stay for a time, gazing upon the general scene and then taking a closer look at the design of each delicate, pendulous flower. As we continue on the trail, fragments of the message and meaning of snowdrops travel with us: spring will certainly follow the harshest winter; silver grays and slumbering browns will inevitably give way to tender greens and lovely blooms. And perhaps that's why, across more winters than we will count, poets, philosophers, and passersby look to snowdrops— the solitary firstlings— for enduring expressions of beauty and wisdom, hope and resilience. — B.

How earth

stirs from slumber—

frost gray yielding to green,

slender, supple leaves tendering

snowdrops—

graceful

white bells nodding in the morning—

how their fine comportment

wakens something

like hope.

— B.

As winter days linger in the Northern Hemisphere, snowdrops are some of the first flowers to come into bloom, pushing up through late-January snow cover or frost-stilled earth. Native to Europe and the Middle East, the snowdrop is a small bulb perennial that typically grows in clusters, with grasslike leaves framing a solitary stemmed white bell-shaped flower. The plant appears fragile but is built to withstand the most difficult conditions. It prepares for cold days by storing energy in its bulb and developing a deep, sturdy root system. On the micro level, snowdrops have evolved to produce many self-protective proteins, including some that seek out tiny ice crystals in the plant and bind to them, preventing further ice growth. The delicate structure of the snowdrop is deceiving. Its graceful leaves are strong and able to pierce easily through snow. And the petals on a snowdrop are thermotropic: on warmer winter days, the petals can move from their usual drooping position to reach upward toward the sun, attracting any potential pollinators that might be in the area. The plant naturalizes easily in woodlands and garden beds throughout most of the United States. Given its beauty and ingenuity, it's no surprise that the snowdrop is associated with feelings of resilience and hope. — D.

The snowdrop reminds us that resilience is not about avoiding pain or mudding through hard times— it's about meeting adversity head on, seeking a path forward, and finding meaning in our struggles. We are amazed by some people's ability to endure great trials. Studies show, however, that human beings are born with the innate capacity to navigate our way through physical and emotional trauma. Temperament, life experiences, and culture play an enormous role in how that capacity develops— or deteriorates— over time. Still, we are all able to consciously strengthen the foundations of our own resiliency. How might a snowdrop inspire you to build resilience? How can you strengthen your roots and store your energy to prepare for difficulties that will undoubtedly arise? What core values can keep you grounded? Might you find ways to approach some threats early and prevent them from further development? What support systems might you reach toward? How might you maintain a sense of hopefulness while problem-solving, adapting to setbacks, and nurturing compassion for yourself and others? What steps could you take today toward resiliency? — D.

The Snowdrop

Many, many welcomes,

February fair-maid,

Ever as of old time,

Solitary firstling,

Coming in the cold time,

Prophet of the gay time,

Prophet of the May time,

Prophet of the roses,

Many, many welcomes,

February fair-maid!

— Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1809-1892, English Poet

Scarlet Elf Cups: Glowing with Wonder

Beneath a bright-chill sky, we're walking a familiar stretch of the Enola Low Grade, an abandoned branch line of the erstwhile Pennsylvania Railroad. Towering cliffs and old railway embankments intermittently block February sunlight from the trail, and much of our way is snow-covered. After a few miles of winter travel, we duck into Shenk's Ferry Wildflower Preserve. Just weeks from now, the picturesque ravine that holds Grubb Run will begin to bloom with over one hundred varieties of seasonal wildflowers, a phenomenal display from March through June. We know that we're early for the show, but as we descend the trail— from snow-cover to mud-slick to winter-brown— we are reminded why this is a favorite place to visit. The fallen-log forest, moss-covered rock faces, and graceful hillsides and hummocks are not blooming, but they are awakening and palpably alive. There will be things to see here. We walk slowly, looking and lingering. We find a single hepatica bloom, tender green sprouts, delicate saxifrage and rockcress foliage—  all somewhat tentative, but something of a start.

Near a quiet turn in the trail, we spot a flash of scarlet amidst the blanket of damp-from-snowmelt woodland litter. Making use of a fallen log and executing a few unrecommended crouches and contortions to avoid trampling anything soon-to-bloom on sloping ground, we gently remove a layer of leaves and twigs and bits of bark to reveal a pair of cheerful, well-formed elf cups. Angled light from the bright-chill sky filters through barren branches, finding its way into the ravine and, in that moment, the cups glow with scarlet incandescence. Still crouched and somewhat contorted, we gaze upon them in hushed appreciation before replacing leaves and twigs and bits of bark in reasonable approximation to the lovely randomness of nature, restoring the scarlet cups to reclusive peace on mossy, loamy earth. We climb back to the Low Grade and make our return on snow-covered trail, considering how winter yields to spring— not instantaneously, but incrementally— inevitably, yet along a curving, sometimes curious path. And step by step, we try to walk with gratitude— for glimpses of wonder that lift spirits and sustain us, in sunlight and through shadow. — B.

Beyond 

whimsical tales 

of woodland elves sipping 

dew and snowmelt from crimson bowls,

beyond

magic—

scarlet elf cups 

rise from a winter bed 

of moss, broken branch, and frost-leaves,

glowing—

with wonder.

— B.

The scarlet elf cup mushroom is one of around 144,000 species in the kingdom Fungi. Fungi are ancient lifeforms— studies show they may have existed on earth over one billion years ago, well before any plants lived on land. The scarlet elf cup can be found throughout the Northern Hemisphere, preferring to grow in wet areas on decaying wood amongst fallen leaves. The little mushroom appears in the winter, a burst of bright red in the brown winter landscape. Like all fungi, it feeds on dissolved molecules from its surrounding environment— instead of photosynthesizing sunlight like plants— and converts these molecules into nutrients that are critical for sustaining other woodland life. The elf cup’s distinctive color and shape has inspired centuries of magical lore. Some say that elves drink their fill of morning dew from the cup; others say that it serves as the perfect bathtub for woodland fairies. The elf cup performs some tricks that are either magically or scientifically distinct, depending on your perspective. Instead of dropping spores from gills as many mushrooms do, the elf cup actively shoots them into the air from a sac in its cup. This makes a puff that is not only visible, but sometimes audible to humans. If you are lucky enough to find an elf cup, try blowing a puff of air into the cup, then quickly back up— don’t inhale! —and wait a second. If the elf cup is at the right stage of maturity, you may see and hear a mass release of spores. Although the elf cup is considered edible, always use caution when touching them— individual reactions to enchantment can vary. — D.

Children’s author Roald Dahl wrote: Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it. If you have a belief system that doesn’t include the idea of magic, you may feel more comfortable with the idea of awe, or even divine wonder. However you come to it, it’s not hard to see how the scarlet elf cup’s appearance and abilities have always stirred the human imagination. How comfortable are you with feelings of magic or wonder? Can you recall a specific experience that sparked these feelings for you? How often do you open yourself to a wonder-full experience? Psychologists and anthropologists tell us that humans are hard-wired to try to figure out explanations for the things we experience. Have you established any noticeable life patterns for explaining things you don’t understand? Having a healthy sense of wonder is generally associated with a curious, creative, and flexible mindset. Look for some everyday magic around you today and see what you might discover. — D.

from The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants

The Mushroom is the Elf of Plants—

At Evening, it is not

At Morning, in a Truffled Hut

It stop opon a Spot...

— Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886, American Poet

Hellebore: The Lovely Whisper of Peace

Walking through winter, we grow accustomed to spare landscape and learn to accept a subdued palette, seeking beauty in barren branch and empty field, finding peace in dormant-brown meadow and slumbering-gray garden. There is wisdom in stillness and eloquence in quietude, we remind ourselves— things lost to other seasons are found and appreciated anew, walking through winter. Yet there have been chill, bleak days— when we've turned on a less-travelled woodland trail or strolled to a forgotten corner of a garden— when we've happened upon ground bouquets of hellebore, blooming in graceful opposition to landscape and palette, nodding in mute response to an unspoken question.

We pause and meet them with wonder: wonder at sturdy green foliage and delicate blooms that droop to face winter ground— maybe in humility, maybe in coyness— prompting us to genuflect in an act of deference to get a closer look, to take a better photograph. And just as frequently, we wonder: who planted these hellebores, with trowel or bare hands, with what thought and feeling? As they gently placed the root ball in waiting earth, did they plant in joy or in sorrow— with hope, or with determination to overcome hollowing despair? And as they smoothed a protective blanket of soil around each hellebore, did they utter a lost incantation, share an untold story?

Several years ago, we found clusters of hellebores blooming near crumbling ruins in the contours of a vanishing garden. There was something enduring and ancient about them, something paradoxical and poetic, too— the way they stirred in winter's cold light, the way they rose without fuss through snow shadow, proffering exquisite flowers to passersby or to no one at all. And so last autumn, we planted a hellebore in our own garden, hoping that something small and new would flourish in the loamy shelter of the magnificent old beech tree. While helleborus niger is offering no blooms yet, it is showing signs of growth, green foliage rising like promise from frost-painted garden. If not this winter, then maybe next... or the next. Or perhaps this hellebore will bloom for another who wanders through a far-off winter, listening for the whisper of peace. —B.

Time past—

someone planted,

someone share a story

of tangled root and broken earth—

and now

when snow

drapes hellebore

in stilling cold crystal,

it seems the season's loveliest

whisper.

—B.

Hellebore is a perennial, low-growing evergreen found in shady woodland areas throughout the northern half of the United States. There are approximately twenty different species of hellebore, including the popular Christmas Rose, Winter Rose, and Lenten Rose. None of these are actually related to roses but are named for their similarly gorgeous blooms— large, downward-facing, cup-like flowers in shades of white, pink, purple, and even black. The plant blossoms in late winter, bringing much-appreciated color to the still-frozen landscape. Over the centuries, hellebore has come to symbolize a sense of peace and tranquility, possibly because the plant is easy to maintain and long-living once established. Hellebore may also be associated with inner peace due to its ancient— and potentially deadly— use as a calming agent. Given the plant's high level of toxicity, it is far safer to avoid touching any part of hellebore, finding tranquility only by observing it. Although it does self-sow and spread, hellebore is typically planted with intention— so the hellebore you see on a late winter walk likely tells a story of someone’s love of the plant and desire for the peaceful, hopeful message it confers with its bloom. —D.

Human beings almost universally value the concept of peace— a state of composure, comfort, and serenity. While some think of peace as the absence of conflict, most spiritual traditions view it as an inner disposition that is independent of situation and circumstance. You do not need to travel to a mountaintop, take a vow of silence, or live a life of solitude to find peace. Instead, reflect on the hellebore as emblematic of a more peaceful mindset. Consider the idea of peace and what it means to you. What would peace feel like in your body? How would a sense of peace impact your life for the better? Have you ever felt that happiness will bring you peace? If so, consider the opposite: what if peace comes first? Are you willing to examine some of your current priorities to find more inner peace? Would you give up some of the time you spend on social media? Would you allow yourself the time to be un-busy? Might you resist comparing yourself to others or projecting a certain image to the world? Would you be willing to reduce the time or energy you expend in negative, toxic relationships? What about the quest for more and more material possessions? These are just a few common barriers that people face on the path to a more peaceful life. What barriers might be in your way? What is it worth to you to free yourself of them? —D.

The Christmas Rose (Die Christrose)

The Christmas Rose raises her white head

To the unfettered world of winter;

She goes alone and disappears

Before the spring can find her.

She announces it

When no one yet believes.

— Johannes Trojan, 1839-1915, journalist, botanist, and poet

Winter Aconite: Dancing with Possibility

A morning walk takes us along a stretch of Mill Creek, the picturesque south-central Pennsylvania waterway that wends its way from broad slopes of Welsh Mountain across Lancaster County to the Conestoga River. Our chosen trail is predictably muddy, and the landscape is, at first glance, limited to the browns and grays of a snowless February weekday. The sky is mild and open blue, however, and closer examination of this corner of the world reveals cursory stirrings of spring. We detour from the lower trail, cross a covered bridge, and climb a cobbled rise to see what we've been hoping to see: a swath of winter aconite, blooming sunshine yellow in seeming celebration across the hillside. — B.

Before

high canopy

unfurls to long shadow,

winter aconite entertains

joyful

sunlight—

tiny golden cup-blooms dancing

with possibility—

in time fading

to earth.

— B. 

Winter aconite is an early awakener, blooming across most of North America in late winter when other plants are still only dreaming of spring. A member of the buttercup family, winter aconite grows in clumps, a solitary yellow flower surrounded by a collar of dark green leaves. The plant stores up enough energy in the fall to burst up through cold winter ground, even making its way through a cover of snow. The flower stays closed, looking more like a bud, on colder days. But with even a small signal from the sun, the flower transforms, and the petals unfurl and reach upward. Like a loving friend who reaches out when most needed, winter aconite extends itself to others on winter days. It offers a critical source of nectar and pollen to hungry insects who may have woken up early from hibernation. For us, it is a welcome burst of green and gold in the winter landscape— and a promise for warmer days ahead. — D.

To serve its purpose in the world, winter aconite must carefully balance energy— conserving resources and extending them as needed. You might consider this while reflecting on your own use of energy. Grab a sheet of paper and something to write with. Draw a circle in the middle of the paper— this circle represents you. Draw another circle anywhere else on the paper and label it with the name of someone important in your life. Now draw an arrow from your circle to the other circle. This arrow represents the energy you give to this person. Make the arrow wider and darker to best represent the amount or intensity of energy you feel you expend. Now draw an arrow from the other person's circle to yours. This represents the energy you feel you receive from this person. Make the arrow darker and wider to represent the amount or intensity of the energy you feel that you gain. 

Now step back and reflect on the drawing. What thoughts come up as you see this representation? Note that relationships fluctuate over time and context: what is true for you today may change. It is also not necessarily bad to expend more energy in a relationship than you receive— or vice versa. The more important point of this experience is to notice the way you are currently balancing and maintaining your energy reserves. You might add more circles and arrow to your drawing to represent other relationships. You could also add circles for different activities in your life. What feeds your energy and what saps it? Do you use your energy in ways that align with your values, or are there adjustments you'd like to make? — D.

  from The Winter Aconite Fairy

  Up, up, I climbed,

  And here am I.

  How wide the earth! How great the sky!

  O wintry world,

  See me, awake!

  Spring calls, and comes; 'tis no mistake.

 — Cicely Mary Barker, 1895-1973, English artist and author