Here it is, not even February, not even the made-up holiday that is supposed to sweep us off our feet in a flurry of candy hearts and roses, not even that month that roars, and it is "almost spring". It is "almost spring" and we are not sure if that is a good thing or not, but we can carry our succulents to the car without three layers of plastic, and by the time our amaryllis blooms, it will be an announcement of something, not a reminder. We are okay with that. Our little fig tree, planted last summer and hoping to make it through the season unscathed, is certainly okay with that.
In the conservatories (because we visit them often), we keep winding up in the desert room. They keep them a few degrees cooler than the rest, which are full of orchid blooms this time of year, and generally humid and tropical. They are restorative places. The desert rooms, though, are otherworldly. Maybe that's why we keep buying succulents. It feels like a place for winter, in its own way. It wouldn't feel right to visit the desert room, all cool and strange, in springtime. It's a snow-escape. I suppose the tropical rooms are, too, but their pink and orange blooms suit the warm months just fine. It's winter in the desert room, full of blue and brown and yellow. It's a different winter.
We really haven't made up our minds about the whole thing. There are seed catalogs scattered across the ottoman in the living room. There are trays of soil in the basement under lights, too. We can't plan and wait too long. Spring will be here before we know it. And here it is, still houseplant season. We were just re-potting spoon jade last month. But we know it when we feel it-- it's almost spring.
