Winter in St. Louis is pretty dismal (I have written my feelings about the topic multiple times now). A palate of grey and brown descends with the late fall gloom, and everything appears dead. Just as we humans retreat indoors to escape the chill and ditch our Hawaiian shirts, so too do the trees retreat inwards to their roots and ditch their colorful leaves.

Holden Hindes | Student Life

Japanese Flowering Cherry ‘Kwanzan’

But trees do not have houses. Well, there are treehouses, but I think that is something different. Without the miracle that is indoor heating and insulation, they have to rough it in the cold. Or do they?

Maybe, skewed as we are to the visible, above ground world, we are looking at plants the wrong way. The surface world is only one piece of the action.

Trying to understand a tree without roots is like judging a human on their head and arms alone––perhaps those are the flashiest parts, but there is a whole lot more going on.

Winter is not death to a tree, but rather a strategic retreat. Just like any living thing, trees are full of water; water which can freeze if it gets too cold. So, as weather cools in fall, deciduous trees ship their water down into the roots, into the warm and snug underground. It’s like being able to send your whole essence down into your coziest slippers. Sometimes I envy the life of a tree. Meanwhile, the sap that remains above ground is altered in its chemical composition, acting as an antifreeze in the trunk.

But enough about winter, winter is in the past. Spring has sprung, or at least is in the process of springing, and springing up with the season are the daffodils.

Holden Hindes | Student Life

Yellow daffodils

Daffodils too go into hibernation in winter, sending their sap and water underground into a bulb, an onion-shaped package in dormancy until spring. As the days get longer and the nights get shorter, specialized photoreceptors in the dormant plant signal to begin growth. Now, all across campus they are poking out and beginning their bloom. A symbol of hope for a new sunny season.

Daffodils all belong to the genus Narcissus, named for the Greek myth of the man so smitten with his image that he fell in love with his own reflection in a pond. He died there, his own affections unreciprocated, and as legend goes, on that very spot the first narcissus flower sprouted––another reflection of his beauty. To me this seems like character assassination of the flower, but it is a nice story.

The trees are beginning to awaken as well, at least some of them are. Among the early bloomers are the Eastern Redbud with its stunning hot pink growth (hence the name), along with Appalachian Dogwood. We should expect blooms from these trees soon enough.

These buds are only the earliest in a string of spectacular blooming trees to come. In front of Graham chapel the Japanese cherries have just begun to flourish into a canopy of hot-pink, while later spring will bring the cascading snowy blooms of the Crabapple tree in front of Cupples II. As mighty as these trees are, there is a tiny magnolia tucked behind Cupples I whose yellow blooms are just as splendid.

To me, the new year begins not in the wintery depths of December, but now. In spring, not only plants but people come out to bloom––I expect shorts to be making a comeback on campus soon. I think it’s fair to say this has been a pretty awful year, and winter certainly did not help. But now is the time of rebirth, and with the buds and the blooms I feel hope reemerging with the season.