In Our Shared Garden: Notes from the Spring Threshold
It feels as though we’ve crossed a seasonal threshold. Most nights now remain above freezing, and the landscape—softened by the shift—has begun to bloom with optimism. When I walk around our neighborhood and catch sight of my favorite flower combinations in others’ yards, I start to think of our entire community as one shared garden. This broader vision often compensates for the areas in my own garden still waking up.
Daffodils are currently in full swing. The smaller bulbs are also at their peak, and the woodland spring ephemerals are wasting no time to seize their brief moment in the sun. As always, pets in the garden bring comfort—and a fair bit of mischief.
Grazing Season, Not Quite Easy Yet
Our steers are back on pasture, slowly rotating through segmented fields. While the grass is lush and growing quickly, it’s still something of a treat—not yet fibrous enough to satisfy on its own. So, they continue to receive some hay. I always think of the moment they fully abandon hay as the true start of the “easy season”—spring through fall, when daily chores are just a little lighter. Even so, the barn still needs cleaning, and the weekly movement of electric fencing remains on the list. We used more hay and burned more wood this spring than usual; the chill lingered.
A Woodland Carpet in Bloom
Behind my childhood home, there’s a hillside where my niece planted daffodils among a sea of naturalized pulmonaria (lungwort), their deep blue blooms echoing Delft pottery. I recently read that pulmonaria flower color is influenced by soil pH—alkaline soils encouraging blue, acidic leaning toward pink. But I suspect the real reason is simpler: the flowers change color as they mature, pink buds opening into blue blossoms. I’ve half a mind to test this theory with controlled soil conditions.
Regardless of chemistry, that hillside is perfection right now—an ephemeral moment that only spring provides. It reminded me how difficult it is to create a truly beautiful four-season garden unless you have a sprawling estate with varied "rooms" for each bloom cycle, or a minimalist zen garden where stillness is the star. Most of us must accept a garden’s quieter moments. Yet by expanding our view—embracing neighbors’ gardens as extensions of our own—we can savor something extraordinary in every season.
I make annual pilgrimages: to the pulmonaria hillside, to a friend’s garden where hellebores and magnolias reign, to foxglove beds, to plots bursting with daylilies or poppies. Appreciating a garden, like a long marriage, means finding beauty in the peaks and the quieter stretches.
In the Woods and At Home
Our woodland path is changing daily. Hepaticas, trout lilies, and blue cohosh are in bloom; red and white trillium are just on the cusp. Wild lily of the valley, starflower, foamflower, baneberry, and jack-in-the-pulpit are all rising, and ferns are beginning their slow unfurl. There’s even a lone meadow rue. No lady slippers here, but I know their secret haunts—and I’m not telling.
Closer to home, my new dog shadows me in the garden, trying to decipher what, exactly, is keeping me so busy. Her instincts say that a freshly raked seedbed is the ideal spot for digging. She hasn’t learned the boundaries yet. I’ve always gardened with dogs and have come to accept the occasional re-planting. With time—and a few strategic pieces of fencing—they learn. The key is planting abundantly, so no single loss feels catastrophic. I fence off only the most precious plants. Cats, for all their grace, pose their own challenges in the vegetable beds, and I’ve found that wire fencing laid flat over soil is a reliable deterrent until the plants grow in.
Looking Ahead
The 10-day forecast shows no frost and a promise of light, helpful rain. In a week, I expect an entirely new garden world to emerge. The weather has only just turned warm, but suddenly it feels like everything needs doing at once. I finished cleaning a client’s garden bed today and was relieved I hadn’t waited a day longer—the perennials were already racing ahead. This is why we start in the cold and damp of early spring. But let’s not forget: we’re still six weeks from the last frost date.