Spring has officially sprung

When the hyacinths peek their fragrant heads up through the tangle of winter grasses, I know that spring has officially sprung. The nights may still be chilly, but the garden knows that spring is here. On hills and glens not far away, I spot almond blossoms coming forth on trees left to fend for themselves. Yes, spring has arrived. 

Another arrival has occurred. A pale pink camellia has been adopted into the garden. She has lived her life in a pot for the last decade and a half. My mom couldn't keep her so it was time for this "pink lady" to have her roots put into the earth here among others that have now become her sisters. Already she is happy. Soon she will be as tall as the "old lady" on her right and the "showoff" on her left.

The "showoff" has been dazzling us with quite a show. Thanks to Hubby's expertise in installing windows, we can now enjoy every moment of this brilliant camellia's performance even on the rainiest of days. 

The bees are busy on the north side of the house where all the camellias live. The saucer-sized blooms have the bees in quite a tizzy trying to decide which bloom to explore next with their chubby pollen-laden legs. As I meander down the shady path, I hear their happy buzzing and it makes my heart sing.

Spring has officially sprung.

For sunshine, daffodils and lemons in February... for these I am grateful

Oh blessed February! On the darkest day of the winter solstice I yearn for this month to arrive with its respite of sunshine both from the sun and from the garden.

The daffodils, jonquils and lemons glow yellow as if heralding to the world that the days are indeed growing slightly longer.

I chase the light with the lens of my camera and with the lenses of my eyes. I drink it in like rays of lemonade. I bask in its warmth and listen to the birds chirping out their courtship rituals around the bird feeders filled with seeds because there are not enough bugs to go around yet.

And I am profoundly grateful spring comes in February in the Bay Area.

Can you imagine...

"I like the idea of our words being clear as a sunny sky and full of grace.
Can you imagine what our families... nations... and even the world would be like
if we could adopt this simple principle?" Dieter F. Uchtdorf

Happy wanderers of the flora and fauna varieties

Hardenbergia violacea "Happy Wanderer"

Last month I was certain that I wouldn't see a single bloom on my one surviving hardenbergia vine this year. A succession of frosty January nights had come just as the buds were setting all over the vine and zapped them all to shriveled little purple dots.

"Oh well," I thought.

But like the loquat tree, the hardenbergia had a backup plan I wasn't privy to and now it is blooming profusely with tiny little orchid-like blooms that look like they walked straight out of Disney's Alice in Wonderland.

The vine is commonly known as "Happy Wanderer". I've found that it isn't the only "happy wanderer" gracing the garden right now...

Bombycilla cedrorum "Cedar waxwing"

I've been thrilled to see large flocks of cedar waxwings in the garden this winter. Every day when I go out to get some sun therapy to ward off my SAD, I am delighted to watch the cedar waxwings come down in small groups from high in the neighbor's fruitless mulberry tree to timidly drink at the bird fountain we installed in the back garden last summer. The cedar waxwings' heads bob up and down as they hurriedly get a drink. Like teenage girls who all have to go to the restroom in a flock, these winter visitors aren't as familiar with the garden as the other permanent residents and so they feel more comfortable venturing down in smallish groups.

Soon the cedar waxwings will fly home to their mountain climes, but for now I'm thoroughly enjoying their vacationing here. Until this year, I haven't had the pleasure of seeing whole groups of them winter here.

Honeybee on hardenbergia

The weather has warmed enough for the bees to happily wander into the garden in search of nectar. The small lavender and pineapple sage plants have been in bloom throughout the winter and provided the only food source for the bees hearty enough to venture from their hive (wherever it may be) on the warmer sunnier days. Now the hardenbergia and camellias are giving the bees some variety. And soon the orange tree and bay laurel tree will have more blooms for them to peruse and sip from.

I used to be a "happy wanderer" always looking for adventure on the horizon. But as I've put down roots here along with the plants and trees I've brought to the garden, I'm finding that I prefer to be the hostess for other "happy wanderers"--both flora and fauna.

February is camellia season (and oh how I love camellia season)

I've always wondered... why does February have to be all about a holiday that makes single people sad and men feel inadequate? In the midst of winter, February is a second chance to surround oneself with bright vibrant colors. The red of Christmas is replaced by the reds and pinks of hearts and flowers. Frilly fancy doilies take the place of paper snowflakes.

I used to mourn the passing of the Christmas and New Year season until I realized that as the Christmas tree was coming down (usually around the second week of January) the hearts and flowers of Valentine's Day could be going up. Such a revelation!

Hubby and I have just as much fun putting up the red and white Valentine decorations on our mantle as we do decorating the mantle for Christmas. We even have a special string of red glass heart lights that we put up so in the long winter evenings they glow with a brilliant red hue.

In our mild winter climate, February also brings the blooming of the camellia bushes. Growing on the sheltered north side of our house, the camellias have grown over the past 12 years with some having branches that touch the underside of the eaves. They set buds in November. Then we sit and wait with great anticipation until they begin blooming some time in late January or early February. February has become "camellia season" for me.

I sometimes like to bring two or three blooms inside and float them in low dishes filled with water. They look like Valentines from Nature herself.  The rest of the blooms I leave outside where we can see them through the windows on that side of the house. Even on a rainy day, they brighten and cheer the winter landscape. Cool and velvety-soft to the touch, the brilliant red and pink petals of the camellia blossoms stay on the bushes about as long as roses stay on the bush. Eventually the camellia petals fall to the ground carpeting the ground under the bushes as if a bride is expected to walk down the aisle there. It is dazzling.

I'm so happy camellia season is here once again.

 

The first signs of spring are appearing in the garden

Around the base of the olive tree, the jonquils have sent up their spring-green spears and tiny teacup-blooms. Just a few are opening. More will probably open if we get the rain that is forecast for tomorrow. We've had a nice rainy season thus far so the jonquils have a beautiful green backdrop of winter grasses and oxalis that showcase the blooms wonderfully.

The loquat tree is sending out its second set of blooms this winter. The first set of blooms were too early in January and ended up shriveled and frostbitten. I was afraid that meant no loquats this year, but apparently the loquat has a back-up plan in place--making my concern was unnecessary.

Every year nature teaches me a little bit more about resiliency and just "going with the flow". The loquat was the first to teach me this year.

Nestled among the brown stems of dormant water iris, garlic and canna lilies, a brilliant (and somewhat tattered) gazania is blooming near the edge of the pond. Every year I watch it do this in the depths of January... every year. I don't know why. It just does. Consistent, resilient, strong and determined this 10+ year old gazania plant has taught and continues to teach me many lessons if I am quiet enough to hear them.

Only another week or two and I know I'll be spotting the first almond tree in bloom on one of our surrounding hills. Then I'll know that spring has truly arrived. In the meantime, I find little harbingers of spring nestled in corners of our little garden... and each one makes me smile.