Winter's Heartbeat

Winter's Heartbeat

Posted by Heather Harris

I've been reading a lot of gardening literature lately, and whenever I get to the section of the story,column, or essay written in February, they all say," Winter is a great time to look at the bones of your garden." Every. Single. One. It seems to be the only thing to say about February. But what on earth does it mean? I get the whole metaphor that the garden is dead, you're looking at the bones that are left to see the structure, plan for the year to come, etc., but what earthly good does it do to look at the "bones"? How does leering at my naked trees tell me anything about what the garden is going to look like in late August? Does a doctor look at my X-ray to see if I'll be healthy in the coming year?  Does looking at an empty plate clue me in to dinner? Does I-205 at 3 o'clock in the morning enlighten me to my evening commute? No. I think the February writer
should simply say, "Winter is a good time to...see what your garden looks like in winter." Or, more poetically, "Winter is a good time to find the heartbeat of your garden".

Moments ago two mallards were attempting to murder each other in our pond. They spun around in a frantic, synchronized circle like ninja figure skaters. They sliced at each other's heads with the tips of their wings and then stabbed their bills violently at each other's neck. The female, who I can safely surmise was the cause of the death match, dove for shore and flew off. After one jab too many, one of the males did too. The victor swam around in confused circles wondering what had just happened. Suddenly the female reappeared and began shoveling her bill into the muddy grass searching for a slumbering slug. The male waddled over and peacefully dined with her.

During the snow storm last week I strapped on my snowshoes and crunched across the field out to our creek. I watched, motionless, as the water wove in an out of the snow-covered ice bridges that had formed on the surface of the creek. Ice hung like crystals off the ancient weeping willow tree, while squirrels stripped bark off of the redwoods, leaving the trunks fuzzy and red like scarlet sweaters.

Little fritillaria leaves are pushing up through the mulch near my doorway. I've spotted daffodils and hyacinth too. A tree on my drive home the other day had grown through a brick sidewalk in the same fashion, pushing the mortar up and out over the years as easily as the little flowers were emerging from the earth.

After the snow melted, I walked under the birch tree in our front yard and collected the branches that were too delicate to hold up under the weight of the ice. I had a huge pile of broken pieces and decided to make a trellis for the vegetable garden. The casualties of winter supporting spring's peas.

My February advice is this: Don't waste your winter studying your garden's bones. Go feel its pulse.