Walking through a meadow in the dead of winter is an odd occurrence. Each crunchy step
into the white abyss will likely leave you wondering what could possibly still be lingering under
that barren surface. The pure white and muddy brown of winter creates an eerie illusion implying
that everything in the world is void of life and all the other colors of nature are banished, never to
return. If you had been to this very meadow even once before, you may think silently to yourself
of how much has changed and how different you feel being here.
If you had strolled around this plain in early July, you would have seen miles of green.
Perhaps not the new and vivid green that bursts into existence after the January snow melts and
the newly dethawed soil is eager to support the abundance of life that accompanies Spring, but
instead a different kind of brilliant, although slightly tired, green. The summer breeze may have
just barely cooled your sun-warmed back and the hum of honey bees and flutter of butterflies
passing pollen from one yellow Solidago to the next would echo in your ears. If you let your
fingertips brush over the tops of petals and ends of leaves, they would be slightly rough to the
touch from baking in the scorching sun. If you left that meadow on that cloudless, July day and
returned to that very same spot at that very same time only now in mid-October, that familiar
field would be almost a stranger. The pollinator highways that once teemed with life would now
have fallen silent and the Solidagos would have lost their striking gold to the bite of frost. You
would notice that the colors have dulled, the spiders have stopped weaving stems together, and
the lifeless stalks that used to elegantly sway in the breeze would now scape against your layers
of puffy clothing and snap as you walk by. As October becomes November and November slips
into December, leaf litter covers more and more of the once fruitful ground. The nights would
grow colder and finally the tundra would arrive once again and we would be back where we are
now, walking through a meadow in the dead of winter.
Although this meadow of ours appears rather bleak, it actually has quite a few secrets
lying beneath. Those very same Solidagos that appeared to be dead, will all pop right back up
once the spring
trickles in. The stem and leaves that thrive above ground and grow brown as the
seasons change, have roots like long, skinny fingers shooting deep below, waiting all winter long
to sprout up once again. Others, many but not all, live all through winter just like their golden
friend. With bulbs like the tulip or tubers like the potato, perennial plants are alive to see every
season. Black-eyed Susans, Goldenrods, and Purple Loosestrife. They may look very different
from one another in our little field, but in winter survival, they all are the same. These perennials
change through every season, but like a tide they ebb and flow but never disappear.
The annuals, however, don’t have what it takes to make it to spring. As their name
suggests, annual plants live fast and die young. The little short-lived treasures give it everything
that they've got for one season of life. They use up all of their energy and the cells that make new
growth to help them create as many seeds as possible before th
an end. Like when an octopus stays with her eggs until she dies of starvation, the only task of these annuals is to spread their seed and die when the job is done. The fast pace of life swears off deep roots because a strong foundation is a waste of time and energy for these fleeting annuals. Whether it’s winter or summer or fall or spring, annuals and perennials are each doing their own thing. So, next time you walk around our snowy meadow and think about what waits beneath
your feet, consider aging perennials waiting to touch the air once again, or m
aybe even tiny
annuals, ready to shoot up for the very first time.