On Daffodils and Deprivation

Spring is springing here in Cincinnati, and we are starting to see signs of life in the otherwise dormant earth.  In the last week, scads of spring flowers have started poking their heads out of the ground.  Last night, while searching with a flashlight for four leaf clovers and leprechauns, Nate and I found a wonderful tiny purple flower in the grass.  And this morning, I noticed little yellow blooms on the daffodils.

Every year at this time, my mother, who loves daffodils, notes their presence in her garden with a chipper “Spring has sprung, tra la!”  I can’t tell which she likes more: the actual daffodils or what they represent to her, which is that the long, nasty, cold, grey winter is finally coming to an end and better weather is (finally) on the horizon.  I suspect it is the latter, largely because when we talked this past weekend about the daffodils (tra la), she focused on the daffodils-as-sign-of-spring benefit rather than on their sunshine-yellow hue, interesting shape or ideal size for putting into a small vase.  To her (and likely many others), the daffodils and other spring flowers are a well-earned reward for suffering through four, five or six (if you are in Cleveland, that would be seven) months of misery.  They are the warm, colorful pot of gold at the end of a frigid black-and-white rainbow.  Spring flowers are ever-so-much-more appreciated than their crappy summer, fall and tropical brethren (the tropical flowers have the absolute gall to hang around all year long... as if!) because of their extended, conspicuous absence and appearance despite climatological adversity (late snows, cold snaps, etc.).  And daffodils are even more especially-appreciated because they are typically the first flowers to bloom and therefore serve as the unofficial "first sign of spring."

I do not subscribe to this philosophy, for two reasons. 

Firstly, winter sucks, and short of a grocery bag filled with diamonds, I can think of no “reward” which would make up for suffering through crappy Midwest weather year after year.  I don’t enjoy being in the snow; I don’t mind looking at it from inside a warm house but I have no desire to go and frolic in it (though I will do so cheerfully if Nate wants to go out and play).  I don’t ski or snowboard, so it serves no purpose in my life other than to make me shovel, wear uncomfortably bulky boots and clothes, and leave earlier for work in the morning to compensate for the slower speed at which I must drive.  The only time I have any genuine appreciation for snow is on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, when I am safely ensconced in my house and cuddled up with my family by a festively-lit tree.  After that, snow can pound sand.  I don’t like ice, either, other than in a soda or a spirited drink.  I’ve seen way too many cars spun out in ditches and ambulances carefully (and slowly… so… slowly…) making their way to hospitals to think of ice as anything other than a road hazard, and a stupid and wholly unnecessary one at that.  And, for the record, I don’t like the cold – anything below 70 and I’m wearing a sweater and wrapped in a blanket.  Early spring, which features both cold air and cold rain or sleet, is one of the most miserable times of the year.  Now, I totally get that the flowers, grass, trees, etc. need the rain to grow, and that winter is a time of necessary dormancy for the trees and many of our animal friends.  But I don’t need rain to grow, and I don’t have the option of hibernating for the winter.  As a result, daffodils and other spring flowers are a really crummy way to compensate me for months and months of crummy weather.

Secondly, I fundamentally disagree with the proposition that, in order to fully appreciate the majesty and beauty of flowers, I have to be deprived of their presence for months on end.  When we lived down south, I was fully capable of enjoying a beautiful flower in the wild despite the fact that it was there all the time (well, probably not the same flower all the time, but you get my point).  In fact, I am capable of enjoying many pleasant things without first depriving myself of them; I do not need to lock myself away from iced sugar cookies, chirping birds, the soft nuzzle of my cat’s head against my hand, a long hug from my son, or a favorite book in order to completely and thoroughly enjoy them.  Good things do not become any less good or less enjoyable to me simply because they are there all the time. 

Rather, I would prefer having flowers in bloom all the time.  Their presence gives me a nice little mental boost and reminds me that there is vibrant color, life and diversity in nature.  Seeing them in the wild (in addition to seeing them in a vase… hint hint, darling spouse of mine) fills me with a certain sense of joy in much the same way that listening to good music does... and I don't need to listen to hours of ear-splitting angst-metal to appreciate that, either.  Depriving myself of the joy of flowers doesn’t make me appreciate them more; rather, it makes me dread and resent the repetitive, seemingly endless whimsy-vacuum of winter that strips them from my life to begin with. 

A little pop of color and a delicate arrangement of petals are good for the soul.  So welcome back, daffodils, little purple flower in my yard, and other random spring flowers!  You were sorely missed, and I wish you hadn’t gone away in the first place.  Now… where’s my bag of diamonds?