Gardening, to me, represents a series of seasonal rituals. Logically that would begin in spring, when nature renews all vegetation after the conclusion of a harsh winter when the groundfrost has finally relented and roots of various plants begin to stir themselves. For me, it's as though the current 'year' of the garden begins at the conclusion of the past year's.

It's when we begin the laborious and tedious task of deconstructing the garden, as it were. When our garden was young decades ago and the plants themselves mere youngsters many of them were carefully shielded from winter's misery with 'blankets'. We would carefully cover the shivering plants for winter. Roses got their protection with rose cones of exploded plastic placed over them, and a brick on top to keep the cones from flying away in winter winds. Our now-giant Magnolia tree was blanketed for many years until it became hardy enough to breeze through our cold and snowy winters. And much too large to cover, in any event.

To keep shapely cedars and junipers and spruces from splaying apart under the weight of snow, we would wind binding around them. Hardy perennials like peonies, irises and lilies were cut back for the winter so their roots could slumber in comfort under the covering of snow that would accumulate over the winter months. And, not least, the annuals had to be plucked out of their beds because their survival zone is only temporary here in Canada's intemperate winters.

Some would be kept overwinter, their roots and bulbs awaiting reawakening when spring finally arrived. So Canna and Calla lilies,begonias and Ipomoea and Dahlias would be placed in baskets and sheltered in the basement until they could be safely retrieved. And then the hard work of emptying all the garden urns and pots of their soil. For years we've been emptying them into the garden beds and borders, scattering the enriched soil there.

And then winter arrives. The garden is sere and abandoned, no colour remains, it looks stark and unfamiliar. And soon it will be covered with snow, an abundance of snow, where the snowpack regularly reaches four and five feet in depth. The gardens buried deep. But not necessarily forgotten.
The excitement, once the snow has finally melted and days begin to moderate in temperature!

When the first spring-blooming bulbs begin to make their presence known, it is nothing less than fascinatingly exciting, we await each new appearance, admiring profusely the most minute evidence of new life forging its way above the warming soil. We think it's taking forever, and we just can't wait for everything to reveal their renewed presence. Some will not. There are always some casualties, and we mourn their passing, then replace them.

We fill the pots with garden soil, peatmoss and sheep manure, arranging colourful new annuals to make cheerful statements of aesthetic pleasure. And bit by bit the garden resumes where it left off reluctantly but inevitably in late fall. Leaving us in wonder at the powerful influence of nature on our lives in all its magnificent manifestations.