Every spring I am reminded...

The most important thing my grandmother ever taught me... ever did with me... was planting daffodil bulbs.

One day a few years ago I was sitting in front of a computer screen when my grandmother puttered by with gloves, a trowel and a bag of dirty lumps. "Come on," she said, "its about time you learned to plant something."

I tried to reason with her and told her that I had become an expert at planting my self. I could plant myself in front of the tv, at the table, on the hammock...

She was not amused.

So I followed her outside and found myself kneeling in the dirt on a cold November day and digging little holes. After I would get each hole 3-4" deep my grandmother would hand me a clod of dirt-encased bulbs and we would plant them.

The activity itself was fun. It was a beautiful, albeit frigid day, and I enjoyed the time with my grandmother. But what I didn't know is the exponential enjoyment I would receive a few months later as I saw tiny green shoots emerge from the muddy ground. Life. The first signs of spring.

And it wasn't just that January, but every January since. These bulbs lay dormant for 3/4 of the year, amid scorching heat, drought, frost and flood. (We don't get snow here.) And then, and for some reason always unexpectedly, there they are. Pushing up through the dirt without anyone's help.

I'm ruminating on this...