Tulips in the Time of Coronavirus
Every fall I stand in my garden in the Boston suburbs and plan my spring plantings. I decide which varieties of tulips and allium to plant, what colors will look best, and where to plant them. I consider which varieties are taller and which shorter; which ones have dense blossoms and which bloom more sparsely. Then, I arrange them in meticulous order so that each variety matures in sequence and every part of each bed will always look full and luscious.
It never really works out the way I plan. The bulbs get mixed up, or I get too enthusiastic in the planting or too exhausted by the digging. By the time I cover the bulbs and stamp down the soil, I might just as well have thrown the bulbs over my shoulder and let them land where they may.
But that doesn’t alter the anticipation and excitement I feel each spring as I watch the tiny green shoots begin to emerge from the thawing ground. It’s a show that never ceases to delight me, and I am invariably surprised by the combinations of color, height and blooming sequence that my bulbs manage to achieve despite my lack of discipline and organization.
But not this year.
This year, we are in California, our plans to return to Boston in early April undone by the coronavirus. We will not be flying back until the imperative to shelter in place is lifted. Whether that will be early June or late August we don’t know, but whatever happens, it’s clear that I will miss the riot of my blooming tulips and quirky growth of my alliums.
Many friends are wiser than I am, and more perceptive, and far more psychologically astute. I shared my disappointment about missing my spring garden with an ancient friend—I mean, a friend of long-standing, although she happens to be much older than I am. I promised I would give her credit here, but if I state her age or her initials, she will never speak to me again. So she will remain ageless and anonymous.
“Interesting metaphor,” she said.
“What’s an interesting metaphor?”
There was a long silence on the phone. I’m used to her long silences. She talks incessantly, this friend, but when she stops speaking it’s because she’s said something important and it’s gone over my head.
“The metaphor of planting seeds,” she said slowly. “Seeds are like children.” She paused. “And like grandchildren.”
We had just been talking about grandchildren in Boston and in New York, from whom we will be forcibly separated for much longer than planned. And just as my tulips and alliums will sprout and bloom whether I’m there or not, grandchildren will crawl and walk, put forth first and second teeth, begin to eat solid food, verbalize and communicate, whether or not their grandparents are present.
We will miss much.
So here we are on the West Coast, watching one set of grandchildren grow and change for much longer than anticipated, just as we are deprived of the same privilege on the East Coast.
The balances of our lives have been changed, at least temporarily. We hope the change will be temporary, although we know that for too many it will be permanent, and for many more, the future will be tainted by grief and loss. To limit the extent of those losses, to avoid being overwhelmed by an unthinking and insensate virus, we’ve chosen to turn our world on its head.
We can always choose how we react to crises.
Because we knew in advance about the nature of the virus, we’ve been able to take draconian action to limit its damage. There is a positive side of this particular pandemic, and perhaps it’s true of all crises that put us in touch with our mortality. It’s easier in this fraught environment to remember that each day is special. That every interaction with someone we love is a privilege and a gift.
Then there’s the old reminder to stop and smell the flowers. In the past, even as I enjoyed the process, I recall having sometimes grumbled about how much work it is to plant my bulbs.
Today, I know without a doubt that planting bulbs in the soil is a benediction, and that in watching them bloom, the universe is answering my prayers. I only hope I can retain this wisdom once the crisis is past.