Inspiration hits me this afternoon – the inspiration to open the windows and turn off the heat for awhile. How, for the love of all that’s green, can this be the last day of January? The temperature gauge is reading 50 degrees, with high 50′s forecast for tomorrow. Last year, we were hunkering down for one of the biggest snowfalls in recorded history. This year, we are all dancing the hula.

I open that window and I take a gambol around the garden. The air is mild, wet and full of an earthy smell. Not that spring smell – not yet, but still a good healthy outdoor perfume.

I make my way along the flagstone path and under the arbor, covered with dried clematis branches and emerge onto the side of the house. This side yard is starting to make me itch; it does not connect our front landscaping with the backyard. It is just a boring swath of green grass, bordered by a sidewalk and stressed-out weglia bushes planted way too close to the house. That side yard needs a plan, it needs soil and it needs plants. Ideas fly across my email constantly from gardening newsletters, making me feel guilty about my side yard’s lack of excitement. This will be my 2012 project, I decide. A thoughtful, designed side yard will pull everything together.

Somewhere, Tony’s back is cringing at the thought of wheelbarrows full of soil.

There is one lone lump of snow in the front grasses bed, the residue of a shovelful from the driveway.

The lasagne compost looks simply dreadful without snow, just piles of peels and scads of shredded paper in the front bed. In a normal winter, this would be covered with snow, freezing and thawing, decaying and decomposing. But this is not a normal winter.

How abnormal it is I soon see – and get a jolt. The daffodils, always first on the scene near the house, are up by inches already. On January 31. The tender green blades are frighteningly early, exposing themselves to such possible trauma. When the temperature drops into freezing, those tips will stop growing and turn black, preparing themselves for a rather unique look this spring when growing begins again. I look more carefully and see foxglove emerging, sedum growing and iris peeking out of last’s year wreckage. Even the grass grows, green as Ireland, eerie and unfamiliar at this time of year. The spot left by the honey locust removal is filling in throughout this weird, weird winter, and for that I cannot complain.

The pond holds a sheet of ice floating in the center, the edges melted into black. I look for fish swimming beneath the floe, but see no flash of gold, no streak of yellow.

The daffodils in the back yard are not up yet, there are no peek-a-boos of green under the pin oak. The new butterfly garden stretching across the back yard shows no signs of life either, but the recently transplanted evergreen is still green and healthy-looking. This may be a success. This strange season is not bringing enough water, either in snow or in rain so I worry about the new butterfly bushes, the new river birch, all the transplanted coneflower.

This 15-minute browse has enlivened me, made me feel chipper and happy. It is always good to be outdoors, to breathe fresh air, feel warm breezes and be a part of the natural world.

Back inside, I water the tiny Christmas trees (still alive!) in the dining room and am hit with another inspiration. These three trees will make the perfect anchor for that side yard in the spring.

I settle back in to work, closing the window. While the gardener in me is concerned about having a hot mess of spring foliage, the outdoor person in me really hopes I can open it again tomorrow.