Listen to your garden — it has much wisdom to offer

I was chatting with the roses the other day. One can learn a great deal from "listening" to the garden.

The roses counseled against giving in to discouragement. A month ago, the rose garden was a sorry sight. Heavy winter snow and wandering deer abused helpless bushes — broke sturdy canes, rotted exposed wood, crushed fall's tender shoots. After a little judicious trimming, roses gathered themselves for a new season of beauty. From battered canes, new shoots poked forth to test spring weather. Then they reached skyward eagerly, rapidly. Spring canes are already as big around as a man's finger, red as a maiden's cheek, tender as a child's kiss. By some magical signal, a tiny bud forms at the end of the cane, soon to become a beautiful rose.

The roses say winter is temporary. The seasons of life inevitably bring cold winters. Roses counsel the wise among us to follow winter with spurts of growth topped with buds of confidence.

Nearby, tulips perform their overture to spring's colorful concert. Their red and yellow flowers sing out like magic flutes or jazz clarinets, giving notice that neither snow nor cold can soften the crescendo. Tulip bulbs have been in the ground for months, impatiently waiting to perform . . . knowing they must be nipped by winter frost before they can make eye music for eager "listeners." Tulips welcome Utah's rocky soil. The rocks keep deer and burrowing animals from feasting on tasty bulbs.

Tulips sing a song of optimism. No one on life's journey is immune from frost and rocky ground. The tulip chorus shouts — in colorful harmony — that bright thoughts overcome even the most somber moments.

The pyracantha hedge did not bend to winter snow. She stood her ground. Now, she trades her dark green winter dress for a covering of emerald, as if to project a new, soft, inviting image. But personality does not change with a new dress. Brambles and thorns await all who approach her. She demands constant trimming and attention. Quail perch on her shoulder, but only because she protects them from marauding cats.

Pyrancantha laments that being "tough" with family and friends may sometimes offer protection, but being "tough" too often creates long-lasting barriers to love and friendship. Still, she says, I am what I am . . . and if skittish quail need my shelter, so much the better.

Not far away, a parallel hedge of supple yew bowed to the weight of snow. Had her concourse not been laboriously cleared of heavy white, she would have broken. Now, she too dons a different dress — fresh and clean but not far removed from her winter green. She will grow slowly, softly. Sparrows will nest within her boughs. She needs trimming only once, and she blushes when given too much attention.