Crocus: Blooming and Beginning Again

When we moved to our new garden, we planted crocuses. They had been reliable favorites in our old garden— easy-going, low-growing perennials with a cheerful, almost lyrical bloom palette— familiar friends and harbingers of early spring. That first autumn, we purchased a small mesh bag of corms at an unfamiliar garden center, tilled a small rectangular plot in an unfamiliar bed, placed the corms in unfamiliar soil, patted and firmed the ground, and wished the crocuses well through winter-to-come. One March morning, we found a happily familiar cluster in the bed, a few sprays on the lawn, a brave, random traveler in an adjacent bed. The new crocuses bloomed with simplicity of habit— opening wide with sunlight, closing at dusk and in overcast conditions— several weeks of flowering before slow retreat to quietude. Crocuses have innate understanding of mood and season and light.

Through the years, we've met the arrival of crocuses in both joy and sorrow, greeting them with a passing glance on carefree mornings— they're here, oh look, they're here— or during seasons of profound grief, unease, and confusion— with no words, just gazing— uncollected thoughts and scattered memory. In those gazing hours, we've invariably found light within each crocus bloom, a luminescence showing the way for other spring bloomers, attracting and reassuring emerging pollinators— somehow reaching us and reassuring us, too. We've learned that past intimate sorrow and past broader strife, beyond troubled times, the wise earth keeps turning, and it keeps sending up crocuses in early spring— reminding us that wrapped in each ending is some sort of beginning— that after darkness, there is dawn and an unfurling bloom. And then there are words: let's begin again. 

Now, sings the crocus. — B.

Crocus

without

flurry or fuss,

renewed from turning earth,

through tranquil moment, troubled time—

a light

within—

meeting us in joy, past sorrow—

 tender affirmation

of beginning

again.

— B.

There are around eighty species in the genus Crocus, and they all tend to be unfussy, resilient, happy little plants. The crocus is native to southwestern Asia and may have been domesticated by the ancient Egyptians or Greeks. One Greek myth tells the story of Krokós, a mortal youth who is turned into a flower by the Gods, either as punishment or as a reward— depending on the version of the tale. The Greek word krokós means golden yellow, the color of saffron— the long stamen threads of the Crocus sativus, carefully cultivated throughout history as a precious spice, dye, perfume, and medicine. Outside of this saffron producer, all other species of crocus can be toxic for humans, some highly— so best to follow the folk wisdom that says picking them is unlucky. Instead, take in their beauty and meaning. Since they are non-native to the United States, someone planted them with intention, possibly to spread their traditional message of happiness and joy. 

The agreeable plant naturalizes easily, so you may find them in areas of warmth or frost, shade or sun, rocks or lawns, mountains or gardens. Notice that the early spring bloomers have flowers with no visible above-ground stems— they grow directly from an underground stem called a corm. The flowers proclaim the coming of spring, coming in Easter egg shades of violet, lavender, yellow, and cream. Once planted, they come back year after year, bringing optimism and the promise of a fresh start. — D.

We’re all familiar with the wonderful feeling a fresh start can provide. Did you know that there’s a body of research behind the fresh start effect? Studies have shown that even the perception of a fresh start can decouple a person from past mistakes and renew motivation towards a goal. This may explain why temporal milestones like a new year, a birthday, a new season, even a new day, can provide an emotional lift and bounce out of a downslide. Take a cue from the crocus, which welcomes the spring season with cheerful flowers.  Give some gentle attention to the patterns of your life, considering places where you could use a fresh start. Get curious about behaviors you engage in again and again (even though they aren’t serving you). 

Mental health professionals tell us that even noticing these patterns offers a new beginning. Are there places in life where you could benefit from a reset?  Reflect on this with self-compassion— as you might with a dear friend— noticing, recognizing the learning opportunity, and giving yourself permission to try again.  Self-compassion is not the same as self-blame, self-pity, or letting yourself off the hook for past mistakes— it is acknowledging life patterns and considering the reasons for them so that you can make needed reparations— and a fresh start. — D.

from Crocus

Then from my heart will young petals diverge,

As rays of the sun from their focus:

I from the darkness of earth shall emerge,

A happy and beautiful Crocus!

— Hannah Flagg Gould, 1789-1865, American author and poet