"Life is filled with swift transition..."

My friend David must have known something was up. During our most recent visit, he had this advice:
"Find a tree nearby. Take your boys outside every day to look at the buds. Each day watch how they develop. It will be something they won't forget."
David and I each have two sons. His are about twenty years older than mine. I enjoy listening to him tell about the highs and lows of raising his boys. His perspective is very different than mine in some ways, and similar in others. But always a nugget of something there to chew on.

This time of year is always exciting in the garden, trying to predict when the last extreme cold of the season will hit. For those of us who keep an eye on the year-to-year temperatures know that days from mid-October to mid-February are unpredictable. And for several years now, February begins with warmer weather, beautiful days, hint of spring. And then mid-month (usually near or on Valentine's day) Old Man Winter seems to delight annually in delivering one final frigid blow that can bring sleet, snow, frozen roads and bridges, and general havoc to all young and tender shoots. So I find it interesting to watch the trees, especially the old natives, because they do not usually send out buds until well after last frost. Many of the younger imported trees end up fooled by the first warm days and begin to stretch their new growth for the world to see, only for it to be frozen completely off within a few days. So I took David's words, intending to tuck them away for a month later.

Then the next day (Feb. 15...) it rained. And the day after that. The gentle soaking kind that lasts all day with overcast skys. The kind where you just want to curl up with a cozy blanket in front of the fire with a good book kind of rain. And I thought the severe cold must not be too far behind.

But then there was green. Trees everywhere sending forth wisps of new growth, venturing out after the rain had awakened nature from Winter's rest. All kinds of trees. And I knew then that David had seen something that I missed; all the signs of spring (albeit -early- ) are here. And so my boys and I are now venturing out every day to check on the neighbors: the Texas Mountain Laurel, the Redbud, the ornamental pear. Because the blossoms are forming, and one day soon they will be bursting with form and color. And it will be magnificant for a few days until the leaves begin to appear. Then it will be summer, and autumn, and winter: the cycle again.

The same is true of my boys. I try to watch them, interact with them every day. And most days it is the same. They have the same needs, same mannerisms, same limitations. All the while I am with them, encouraging them as they grow, encouraging them in their growing. And then one day you find that they are taking first steps, taking more responsibility for themselves. The tooth that was not there suddenly is. The crawling is replaced with walking. The cooing is replaced with talking. The change is relatively sudden to the plateau of ability. And like the tree, each season builds on the last, but the beginning of spring -- the sudden change from one level to the next -- is one of the most marvelous times of life. And seeing them prepared for the change when it comes is one of the most fulfilling parts of the job.

So we learn something from the trees in transition- learn to watch, wait, and appreciate the beauty in the change. And the anticipation of the new season it welcomes in.