Basic is always best.

Here are three Boston flowers that represent the primary colors.

Together these colors are the building blocks for all the colors to follow.

These peony tulips form a nice bridge from the early spring bulbs to the later spring offerings of the peonies, poppies and Iris coming up just around the floral season corner. It’s a grand time for the gardens – enjoy it while it lasts, because it never does.

This area (Albany, NY) has a strong influence from its primarily Dutch settlement origins, resulting in several large tulip plantings that have finally been coming into their own after a slightly late start. Nature tends to catch up in just a few short days of warmth and sun, righting whatever winter obstinance derailed the typical timing of blooms. These visions of tulips were seen on a lunchtime stroll I took this last week – a happy visage to break up the day and remind me that there is more to an afternoon than office meetings and paperwork. It’s also a helpful prompt to slow down and smell the flowers when given the opportunity – and if you’re not given the opportunity then it’s important to make one. To that end, I’m going to allow these pretty pics to speak for the rest of this post – get out and enjoy this Sunday, rain or shine.

A different way of looking at the cherry blossoms in the backyard, these moving images roughly capture the shimmering way the pool water reflects on the branches and blooms. Adding movement and highlights in a way no amount of AI could ever match or muster, it is an exhibition of wonder – wonder at the world, at the way nature accentuates its charms, at how a sunny spring day can instantly transform the mood.

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…I could walk through my garden forever.”

– Alfred Tennyson

The garden in spring might be the most romantic garden of all the year. Maybe it’s the freshness, the relief from winter, or the temporal nature of so many spring flowers. Ephemeral delights, not meant to last, not designed to withstand more than a few hot days.

“I have drunken deep of joy,
And I will taste no other wine tonight.”
– Percy Bysshe Shelley

Spanish lavender is not reliably hardy in these rough winter parts, but their blooms are so enchanting I may plant some anyway. With its quirky blooms that look like a cross between rabbit ears and a pineapple, this is a whimsical bit of prettiness, thriving in drier climes and locations, and the perfect plant to lend some cooling aspects to a hot summer garden.

While I don’t drink liquor anymore, I can still make a mean lavender martini, and I’ll make one for you if our paths cross some muggy summer day or night – it’s a delight for the sunny season, and I’ll garnish it with a sprig from a more hardy variety from the garden.

While I don’t grow pansies myself, I enjoy them whenever and wherever I see them. Such pretty smiling faces almost seem to rise up to say hello. They symbolize the earliest hope of spring, standing solidly against late snows and cutting winds, and absolutely laughing off rain. On the day I caught these beauties at the nursery, some rare sort of planetary alignment was knocking all of us for a loop (scheduled to last through tomorrow, I believe) and I leave into my daily meditation a little more, reminding myself to be mindful and present in the moment so as not to overthink things.

So many lessons can be learned from the plant kingdom, and gardening has taught me many things over the years. How to be patient, how to nurture, how to prevent death, how to accept death, how to appreciate life – all the major lessons in being a good human being can be culled from the garden. I see that whenever I find a pansy’s happy face in the spring.

The first jonquil to bloom is traditionally a bashful one. Shy and hesitant, it doesn’t fully unfurl its petals right away, usually holding one of two back, keeping themselves close, similar to the way some humans cross their arms. Much of my life has been spent like this first daffodil – cautious, careful, slightly cunning. Especially at the beginning of things, when nothing is sure, nothing is sacred, nothing is certain. Safety first – safety for surety, safety for survival. There could still very easily be snow, and storms have been blowing up out of nowhere, terrifyingly fast – too fast for a little jonquil to close up its petals before they might be ravaged.

But think of all the sun it misses by playing it safe, think of the shadows it casts on itself before letting go, how much wasted time, how much wasted light. The lovely warmth of a spring day is there for the taking, for the loving, even if storms come later, even if the petals are torn, even if it’s not perfect.

There is a noble grace that comes from living for the day.

The exquisite bloom of the Ranunculus isn’t celebrated as much as it should be, and I’m not sure why. Is it the name? Agreed, it’s a bit ridiculous, but what’s in a name?

Beauty, wonder, art, grace…

What else?

It may seem strange, as it did to me, that white should be the primary color of choice for this winter flower arrangement from a recent gathering, but it worked in ways I didn’t have the vision to see as possible. Far from blending into the snowy background this winter has so voluminously provided, this little bouquet managed to sing its song and cut through the wintry mess with its blend of daisy-like chamomile blooms and sweetly-perfumed stalks of stock. Bright and refreshing, its accents of yellow hearts and green foliage made for more than enough freshness. Proof that the simplest bouquets are often the best bouquets. 

This is not a time for muss and fuss.
It’s a time for serenity. 
Simplicity. 
Beauty.
Grace.

It’s almost time for winter to end.