Planting pansies, my harbor

in these strange times

By Mary Kay Roth 

I am planting pansies today. 

One of the earliest of my spring rituals, I’m planting even sooner than usual this year, as pansies arrived in local nurseries right along with migrating geese and thawing temperatures.  

“Now remember, you’re taking a risk,” warned the thoughtful gentleman from the greenhouse.   

Fair enough, I’m willing. There’s something singular about planting pansies, hearty little sprites that continue to surprise me when their jarring, brilliant colors shock the gray and forlorn landscape of my yard.

For many of us, the landscape of the country has also been forlorn this winter with months of rough and tumble times that strained our stamina.  Spring was supposed to be our salvation, the reliably cheery season with resurrected barbecues, lines for the carwash, the promise of warmth and light.

But just as our celebration commenced, just as we emerged from deep hibernation, we were gob-smacked with a deadly viral beast stalking the world – and inevitably heading straight for our own front doors. I must admit, COVID-19 is the perfect name for a villain virus.  I can picture it sheathed in black, heaving and breathing with the menacing voice of James Earl Jones: “You don’t know the power of the dark side.”

So we all brandish, not laser guns, but bars of soap and bottles of sanitizer, attempting to battle the elusive enemy by furiously washing our hands, carefully assessing the state of our food pantries and, just as carefully, trying valiantly not to peek at our bleak financial portfolios.

This is indeed serious and scary stuff.  I can wash my hands raw and buy a cart-full of canned goods, but I still can’t find a soft place to land.  

I can, however, plant flowers. I can dip my hands into good, clean earth, sow my seeds, refill my flowerpots and keep the faith these pansies will flourish and open into a palette of deep purples, pale lavenders and sunshine yellows.

Pansies actually have a delicate look about them with their velvet-like blossoms and heart-shaped petals. Don’t be fooled.  They may not seem as sturdy as the solid sunflower, nor as durable as the dependable zinnia.  But they are the most robust flower I know. A poet once called them “the hockey goaltenders of the plant world.” You can dump them in your flower beds and windowboxes and they’ll be just fine, hale and hearty, even when faced with March’s frigid blast.

They are survivors.  So are we.

Rest assured I don’t think pansies will fix the world’s woes and I don’t believe spring showers will wash away the coronavirus. 

In the months ahead, I will recycle and I will vote. I will ease up on plastics, volunteer for good causes, shop local and carpool. I’ll pay my taxes on time. I will post signs in my yard for candidates I believe in.  I will also pledge to wash my hands diligently and, if I get sick, to responsibly stay home.

But for today, just for today, I will enjoy my cup of coffee. I will think about the scent of my granddaughters, cradled in my arms on a Friday sleepover. I will rejoice that I actually got the jam jar open this morning.  And I will remember the honey golden light suddenly splashing into my window at dawn, right alongside the earliest of birdsong. Because, yes, the first robin is back, and the second and the third, and there are sandhill cranes dancing along the Platte River.  

Today I will let others rage on about the trials and tribulations of Daylight Savings Time, and about the true analysis of Super Tuesday.

Today I am planting pansies.  And for now, that’ll do.   That’ll do just fine.