I have a confession to make: I have never planted bulbs. But this year, that will change. Not because I particularly love daffodils or tulips, but because bulbs are best planted in Autumn when the rest of the garden begins to go dormant, snatching up the jeweled tones of summer - (oh those shades of jade, emerald and rose!) - shushing them into an enchanted sleep until they are reawakened the following year. And each year, pieces of my heart are stolen into that same slumber, deadening my senses until I am startled awake by an oddly warm kiss of a sunbeam on a chilly March day, or a chickadee’s trill in the bony lilac hedge, calling my attention to the catkins forming on their woody branches.

As gardeners, when we are prepared for our souls to shrivel with the maple leaves in the coming cold, planting bulbs can offer us hope. They become our companions in the winter months when we fight seasonal affective disorder or the gloom of that inevitable ‘dusk-come-too-soon.’

When we are tempted to curl in upon ourselves, the bulbs in the ground outside our doorstep are silently cheering us on – binding us to their fight in a comradery that began in Eden long ago. Beneath the surface of the frosty turf, they forge a path to life.

And this year, I need their companionship.

On a trip to the local plant nursery to purchase fungicide for the twilight of my garden’s summer blooms, I rounded the corner aisle and nearly collided with a huge display of wooden crates, laden with bulbs of all different sizes, shapes, and shades of brown. On each bin was taped a little portrait of their future personhood, and suddenly I felt a shock of joy. That’s when I knew my gardening journey with bulbs had begun.

I don’t know how much time passed as I perused the bins, reading descriptions and examining bloom times, growing zones, water needs, soil PH and planting depth. But I came away with a sizable handful each of snowdrops and orange crocuses, (with a couple anemones for good measure.)

This week, I’m taking my two small children back to the nursery so they can choose their own little bulbs, and we will have a “planting party.” We’ll likely end with some ginger snaps and spiced cider, and the sun will still feel warm enough for us to break a small sweat, but it will be festive. For my goal is to teach my children to prepare their hearts alongside their gardens, rooting hope into the still-supple soil to combat despair, because no matter how bright and beautiful the summers might be, wintry weather will inevitably set in, and chances are, it will last longer than any of us want it to.

So I have my shopping list: spiced cider, ginger cookies, and bulbs. Onward!