More simply, it's the ability to look at a tightly knotted rhododendron blossom like this that survived the winter, deer incursions, and a late snowstorm...
... but instead of actually seeing the locked down blossom, I see it as it will be in another month; one of a profusion of pink puffballs on the hillside...
Or, instead of being able to marvel at the intricate architecture of a peony bud as it slowly unfurls...
... my eye sees the stunning ruffled flower that it will become...
Then there are the Bleeding Hearts (Dicentra) that start out looking like generic pink buds. To me, they appear instantly in their full bicolor glory -- to my mind, one of the strangest and most intricate creations Mother Nature has ever come up with.
Despite the rather gruesome common name, these are truly a marvel of design. They plump up as though inflated by some miniature compressor, and attract legions of bees and smaller insects who sip delicately at the nectar in what looks like a tiny teardrop.
And then there are hydrangea; the source of so much heartbreak, and a true triumph of hope over experience. The minute they start to leaf out again, I always see them as I want them to be... A swath of blue against the adjacent greenery, with yellow day lilies next to them -- a yellow and blue salute to Mr. Mulch's Swedish heritage.
Alas, that vision comes to pass only once every couple of years, thanks to late frosts, early deer, and inept pruning.
The same phenomenon prevails in the vegetable garden. Each season, we start with a blank slate as the raised beds slowly thaw to a workable state. As Mr. Mulch fills the beds with the seedlings he's started indoors and hardened off outside, I see not the fragile shoots that need the protection of "walls o' water"...
... but instead see visions of the bounty to come (assuming Mrph takes care of the chipmunks) in July and August.
And who could get excited by the appearance of the first microscopic pea shoot nosing up out of the bed -- can you even spot it in this photo?Only someone who is instead seeing the lush climber this will become, anticipating the harvest of sugar snap sweetness that will follow.
And in what is probably the largest feat of optical insanity, when Mr. Mulch puts out the eggplant, zukes, basil, and other seedlings to prepare them for planting, I don't see a bunch of indistinguishable infant veggies, but instead see a harvest basket brimming with vegetarian delights, ready for sauteeing, pickling, and pesto.
