The gardens of Winterpast are in a state of confusion this year.
First, it was ninety degrees in February. Trees and flowers awakened far too early beneath Nevada-blue skies, stretching toward a warmth that felt more like April than winter. Tender green shoots emerged with confidence, trusting the season. Then winter returned without apology, freezing new growth overnight.
Warmth followed again. Blossoms opened. Bees returned. Hope stirred.
And then another frost came.
While we were away, after days of eighty-degree sunshine, another cold spell swept across the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada. Gone are the baseball-sized peonies that had proudly announced themselves only days before. Their heavy heads now hang low, browned by cold and left to struggle toward whatever comes next.
But the crab apple tree must be in a very determined mood these days.
Against all reason, she was blooming again. One brief show of tiny pink blossoms to announce, I am here and I will not give up to the weather.
Not as boldly as before. Not covered in the extravagant blossoms she first offered to spring. This time, only scattered soft pink petals are opening quietly to the sun, visited by confused honey bees zigzagging through the chilly air. Still, she blooms.
Standing in the middle of our yard, she has become my newest symbol for people learning to live after grief, heartbreak, illness, aging, disappointment, or loss.
Life changes us. Frost touches every living thing eventually. Some seasons arrive too harshly. Some winters stay too long. We lose parts of ourselves we thought would always remain untouched. The garden never survives unchanged.
Neither do we.
Yet somehow, deep inside, there remains a quiet instinct to bloom again.
Not perfectly. Not all at once. Not without scars left by difficult seasons. But gently. Patiently. One small blossom at a time.
The roses at Winterpast are trying too. Their frost-bitten tips have finally begun to grow out, reaching cautiously toward another season. Tiny buds are appearing now, much smaller than usual, but present nonetheless. The lavender is uneven. The maple dropped leaves in protest weeks ago. Even the sturdy sagebrush looks uncertain beneath the endless Nevada wind.
Powderly mildow is attacking the tiny new leaves. Yesterday, the rains washed away the Neem Oil HHH sprayed just the day before. Everything feels slightly delayed this year. Slightly bruised.
And perhaps that is why the gardens feel so honest.
There is something deeply comforting about watching living things continue after hardship. Not untouched by it, but continuing anyway. The crab apple tree does not stand in the yard mourning the blossoms she lost. She simply gathers herself and begins again with what remains.
There is wisdom in that.
Grief once taught me that happiness would never return looking exactly as it had before. I waited a long time for life to become what it once was, until slowly realizing that healing rarely works that way. New joy grows differently. Softer perhaps. More fragile in appearance. But often deeper rooted than before.
The gardens of Winterpast remind me daily that survival is not failure. Blooming after the frost is its own kind of courage.
And that is enough for this season.
A little sunshine.
A little hope.
And the quiet decision to go ahead anyway, one step at a time.
