Susan Carol Hauser

Peeping the Bog

In Bog-watching on April 4, 2014 at 4:14 pm

Peeping the Bog: April 3, 2014

 It is all the same to the chickadee, spring, fall, summer, winter, obsessing over food without apology, enjoying my feeders without gratitude. What would it be like to live without pushing against the season, that cannot be pushed? I say to others that I have loved winter all of my life, that since I started writing in my late twenties, it has been my favorite writing time, my creative self expanding in the concentration of white, of quiet, of solitude. I welcomed spring, of course, but with a note of sadness knowing that the ease of long nights was already diminished and that the long summer sun would bring undeniable demands. By the time bluebirds and robins return I have drawn out my garden plans, tomatoes here, green beans there, carrots in between. Although my yard is still deep in snow, one of the raised beds in the garden, all of them totally obscured for the last four months, has begun to emerge into light. Its rectangular shape is discernable and bits of last year’s stems rise like incipient flags from the shrinking snow. This year, I find in my heart no wistful yearning to stay the advance of the growing season. I suppose I am ungrateful for the opportunity in this elongated winter to practice patience. I have bought my vegetable seeds, spinach and kale, and flowers to feed the heart, Shade Medley and giant sunnies. The snow has receded from the south side of the house, and yesterday I prowled along the strip looking for signs of dandelions that sometimes bloom right through snow. There was nothing. Even the grass was brown right down to its roots. Chastened, I returned to the house, sat at the kitchen table and watched the chickadees come and go from the feeder, oblivious, their song of cheer ringing in the clear light.




  1. So beautifully written, and attuned to the seasons, I can almost appreciate the long winter.

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