I noticed, the other day, a patch of crocuses coming up by the basketball hoop we inherited with this house when we moved in. Like much of our 1940s home, the hoop is looking a bit worn, but it still works and our kids have put it to good use.
The crocuses, however, were a pleasant surprise–a heretofore unknown legacy left by the former owners, lying dormant since we arrived this summer. Their appearance made me think of our home in Virginia where we spent the first two years of COVID before moving to the UK and then here to Connecticut (we live our lives in two to three year increments).
Our first autumn in Virginia, I planted tulips in the flower beds bordering the front of our house. I am by no means a gardener. I can’t even keep a succulent alive (turns out too much water can be just as detrimental as too little). But having moved to a new place, I think I needed some assurance that the seeds we plant in one season will come up in another, that somehow praying is like planting, and that even though I couldn’t see the slow growth taking place below the surface, I could trust that it was happening nonetheless.
What I hadn’t thought of while tucking the papery bulbs into the dirt was the living legacy I was leaving behind for whomever would make their home there next.
I see crocuses everywhere now. In garden beds, at the foot of our chestnut tree, scattered throughout neighborhood lawns, and I can’t help but think of Miss Rumphius casting her lupine seeds over hillsides, spreading beauty in her little corner of the world. It was a comfort to think we can leave our mark in beautiful ways on places we’ve been.
I need this reminder right now, because the turning of seasons, especially during the first year in a new place, brings with it the need to learn again what it means to live here, in this neighborhood, with these people, in this season.
In the fall, people naturally move inward, into their homes, hunkering down for the winter. Those who emerge usually do so only out of necessity—walking kids to the bus stop, taking out the dog, checking the mailbox. I’ve grown accustomed to the sparsity of people here, so unlike our neighborhood in London where just to step out our front door was to step into the flow of other lives.
But now that the weather has turned, the neighborhood is taking on new rhythms—kids out on their scooters after school, raised garden beds sprouting up in people’s front yards with the ubiquity of crocuses, runners of all sorts stretching their legs. It brings to the forefront the reality that the roots we have put down here are still relatively new.
We’re at this strange in-between point after a move where the place we once were begins to recede. The edges of life there become blurred. The ache of loss is still lodged pretty firmly in my chest, but it’s less acute. This new home feels a bit more like home, but each new season is a jarring reminder that we’re still learning our way here too. And the shift from winter to spring often feels the most jarring of all—like Punxsutawney Phil being plucked from his burrow, the sun in his face, and all that pressure to prophesy if this will be a prolonged winter or an early spring.
In spring, whether it comes early or not, there’s an overwhelming abundance of newness, a concrete revelation of the tender and tentative roots we’ve only begun to put down here. The dull ache becomes acute once more.
But the thought that there are little legacies we’ve left behind in London, that there are some we’ve yet to discover here, and that we’re in the process of planting for future years, gives me a sense of being a little more firmly grounded in this place, at least for today.
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