New Beginning
CM Ruddy
New Beginning
By CM Ruddy
It didn’t look like spring yet. The trees were bare, the ground still covered with brown grass, mud, and decaying leaves from last year’s fall. But like the energy humming in our veins, sap was running in the trees, drip, drip, dripping into buckets full of subtle sweet that we collected and dipped our fingers in to taste. It was April, and the snow had mostly melted. More importantly, the ground had thawed, and we could smell the cold rich soil and feel the world awakening after a long winter’s rest.
If we looked closely, straight shoots of green pushed up through gray-brown detritus in sleeping gardens, growing almost before our eyes, tips swollen with the daffodils to come. In the woods, moss glowed with new life, spongy and lush, microscopic forests in every square inch. And at the bottom of a ridge, among the towering beech and maples, small patches of almost-hidden growth told us spring was, without a doubt, coming. Lobed leaves curled around stems topped with soft flames of closed white petals, waiting to open their faces to the day. As the light strengthened each morning, leaves unfurled and eight perfect oblong petals, clean and crisp, splayed open to reveal a tiny spiked yellow sun at each center. These were bloodroot, one of the first flowers of spring. As children, we always picked a few, low to the ground. We spread the orange liquid that welled up from the roots onto our hands, staining designs into our skin to mark the new season. Then the flowers went into a petite clear vase in the kitchen window, and we went back outside.
You never know what spring will bring to Wisconsin, day to day, moment to moment: sunshine, clouds, snow, heat, frost, thunderstorms, wind. But as the earth tries on different weather, only to discard it like a toddler changing clothes, signs of life march relentlessly on. Vultures reappear, dark Vs dipping and soaring in slow, silent circles. The reverberating call of the sandhill cranes echoes as they fly overhead, seeking the reddish mud they will use to camouflage their feathers. Soft, gray pussy willows shed their shiny chestnut scales, flowering before most trees have their buds. Spring peepers call out in a deafening, high-pitched chorus as the sun sets, and visiting ducks tuck in for the night. The bulbous red, crinkled baby leaves that are the start of this year’s rhubarb patch emerge overnight. When the sun is shining, its angle is different, warmer. It shines through translucent leaves, and my dog’s coat retains its heat. The smell of damp dirt and new growth is the only constant. Portents of spring are everywhere. When the days begin to lengthen, I notice small, constant changes, both around me and in me. I sleep less. Move more. Make plans. Wriggle in my skin, shedding the heaviness of winter. I want to plant things. Dig in the ground. Come out of my unplanned, unnoticed, hibernation, ready for a new beginning.
CM Ruddy was born and raised in beautiful Door County, Wisconsin. Growing up on an island, where woods and water were always close, she developed a love of nature at an early age. Much of her writing reflects this. If she isn’t spending time with family and friends, CM is probably in the woods with her dogs, knitting, or curled up with a book.
