There are a few things I have fully embraced as my mid-life hobbies, and honestly, I am not even a little bit sorry about it.
I think at this stage of life, we start looking for the little things that speak to our spirit. The things that calm us down without asking anything from us. The things that make us slow our pace, breathe a little deeper, and remember that life doesn’t always have to be so loud.
Birds? Yes.
Flowers? Absolutely.
Getting way too emotionally invested in whether or not my tulips come back next spring? Apparently, also yes.
I’ve always loved having bird feeders, and over the past few years, I’ve gotten especially attached to my hummingbirds. I make homemade nectar, keep track of when they arrive and leave each year in my phone notes, and basically act like they are tiny seasonal guests I am personally responsible for hosting.
My dad had martin houses when I was growing up, so I guess the bird-loving gene runs strong in the family.
My mom and dad both loved being in the garden, too. Growing up, we had a huge vegetable garden — partly because they enjoyed it, and mostly because we didn’t have much money, so that garden helped feed us.
And then there’s gardening.
Not vegetable gardening. I deeply respect people who grow tomatoes and squash and all that practical stuff, but I am here for the flowers.
A couple of years ago, I decided I wanted my front flower bed to have a little “English garden” feel. Romantic. Full. A little wild. Mostly perennials. The kind of garden that looks like it might have been there forever, even though you know good and well you were sweating in your yard with a garden trowel trying to make it happen.
Then I bought tulips.
I have always wanted tulips in the spring. They just feel cheerful and hopeful, like the earth decided to put on lipstick after a long winter.
Fun fact, though. Tulips are bulbs, but around here, they are basically bulbs in name only. In our zone, they act more like annuals.
I did not know this when I bought them.
Because in my mind, bulbs were supposed to come back. Isn’t that the whole point of being a bulb?
But my first year with tulips, I fell in love. Completely. No regrets.
So when the season ended, I started wondering if there was any way I could save them for next year instead of buying more. After a little research, I learned that you can “harvest” tulip bulbs if you have some patience.
And I thought, well, why not? Worth a shot.
The main thing I learned is that you have to let the tulips completely die back. Not mostly. Not “well, that looks sad enough.” Completely. No halfway about it — it has to be fully done before you can move on.
The stems need to shrivel up and lose all their green. After blooming season, the bulb pulls all the energy from the stem and stores it for the dormant season. So if there is even a little green left, you have to wait.
Once the green is gone, it’s time to dig.
A garden fork worked best for getting the bulbs out of the ground. After I dug them up, I used an old soft toothbrush to gently brush away the dirt from the bulb and roots. Then I cut off the dead stems and let the bulbs dry for a week or two in a dark, dry place.
After that, I put them in a Walmart delivery box to store until November, when I’ll plant them again and hope for the best.
The funny thing is, bulbs do not all die back at the same time. So every few days, there I am, wandering around the yard like a woman on a very serious mission, inspecting dead tulip stems and deciding who is ready to come out of the ground.
And yes, I love that this might save a little money.
But really, it’s more than that.
There is something about getting my hands in the dirt. Planting something. Watching it bloom. Letting it fade. Saving what’s left for the next season.
It feels slow in the best way.
It feels hopeful.
From the Porch 🍃
And maybe that’s why this all feels so familiar to me. My mom loved flowers, especially irises, and I think about her when I see things blooming. Maybe this love of birds and dirt and flowers isn’t random at all. Maybe it’s one of those quiet little things passed down without anyone ever officially saying, “Here, this belongs to you now.”
It feels like a small, ordinary reminder that beautiful things can rest for a while and still come back again.
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