The tulips that we stored diligently in the crisper drawer of our urban Californian refrigerator are blooming. They are blooming in the garden of course - having since been removed from their 'winter' of domesticity. Bulbs, we decided, were for years two and three - advanced planting that was best approached once we had some experience and felt adequately prepared to move onto something new. We dug a deep trench into the hard dirt around the plum trees and dropped the dormant brown bulbs in. Little World War I soldiers hunkering down in the mud.
And then we waited. It could all go very badly, I thought. As I am apt to. There is something very unnerving about growth you cannot see. Life that occurs beneath the surface. I wanted to dig it up and inspect it, poke my fingers in and prod around, or watch a motion capture video of any growing that was happening, speeded up to the point of recognition. But, instead, you just stare at the dirt and count the days. You let go and believe that even though you cannot see it or touch it, something is becoming something under there.
The tulips began poking up a few weeks ago. They emerged vibrantly and with such an air of certainty, that I felt foolish for ever doubting their arrival. Such strong, robust plants. The first bud to open gloriously spread out her petals and revealed a stunning center of black and yellow speckles, set dramatically against her lush pink crown. I kowtowed to her and decided she was winter's great warrior princess, defiant and indestructible in the face of frost and freezing rain.
Well, not entirely.
Today it is cold and rainy. It is empty and quiet in the house, save for the wet soundtrack of the dishwasher competing with nature's constant percussion of dampness. I look at my tulip heroine and see her closed up tightly, holding everything inward to protect herself from the elements. Her beauty hidden deep within and the raindrops sliding like tears down her blushing cheeks. And I think to myself, No. I think, and I promise, I will not fear the rain. I can survive a winter and I can grow in the darkness. I can bloom against the odds and I can do it gloriously. And when the sun decides to slip away for a day or two, when the cold creeps back in and the clouds fill up with sadness, even then, I can embrace the rain. I can. And I will.
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