I stood at the edge of the gorge and glimpsed spring. The grass was dead and matted but through the brown blades popped purple and white flowers — anemones.

Single flowers atop a slender stem, Anemone, berlandieri, are among the early spring bloomers in the Hill Country.

They are lovely, ranging in color from white to lavender to violet to deep blue.

A common name for this plant is a Windflower, a reference to how its seeds ripen and disperse by blowing away in the wind — a dance across the hilltops, like a wish made on a dandelion.

The lower leaves lay near the ground so in a thicket of grass only the flower shows.

Each stem has one dainty flower and grows inches to feet apart, not in a mass like verbenas, forming carpets of plush purple and seen from afar. Instead, windflowers are enchanting little dots on the landscape, happened upon close up, a momentary surprise that delights when discovered.

In a gentle breeze, the stiff winter grass stands still while the windflowers tremble, and I wonder if they quake in excitement at the sunshine or in fear of their frailty?

I moved from the hilltop into the gorge to a more shaded and protected environment — protected at least from exposure to weather. Here I used to discover pops of plant surprises at every step, but the wild pigs have defaced the surface, rooting up the slopes, leaving loose soil and rocks.

I slide as I go, like walking down a sand dune.

I was looking for the elbow bush, a shrub native to Texas and another early spring bloomer. My friend, Patty, who is compiling a plant inventory for the ranch found one last fall and I wanted to see it in bloom.

It is not an easy trek to the spot where the elbow bush grows — it juts from a cliff wall just below a ledge where the gorge declines at a steep angle.

Each gorge at the ranch is unique — in terrain, plant material, and features such as caves

and seeps

and fossil embedded limestone walls.

Viewed from looking across the landscape, the gorges appear as cedar filled fingerlings stretching into the hillside.

The level tree tops disguise the steepness and jags and rock overhangs deeper in the draws.

To descend a gorge requires focus — cautious stepping with feet turned sideways for traction; artful dodging of dead juniper branches that protrude like daggers;

careful grabbing for branches, roots, and vines as safety ropes while searching for a stable foothold;

and sometimes crab-walking on hands and feet or sitting and scooting until finding a flat spot to balance and stand again.

I go slow.

And still, I can count several frightful falls and slides.

I look ridiculous, particularly when scooting.

Yes, sometimes I laugh out loud thinking how it appears.

But even so, every time I reach my gorge destination I experience an unaccountable power from the pause at that place.

It’s not just the wonder at reaching the fern laden cliff,

the millions of years old oyster bed,

the seep that grows stalactites,

the Warhol splattered moss walls,

or the cave where a porcupine lives.

These places of wonder sit in the draws where the sloped sides reach their steepest and come together like the tip of a triangle — a dead end point for the seam of the draw.

Here, where the gorge engulfs me and forces a physical pause, an emotional pause triggers too. Tucked in, protected, and embraced by calm, I meet the still of the night in the middle of the day and wordless messages speak and there is space to listen — to listen completely.

And there stood the blooming elbow bush.

Branches stretched from the cliff wall and drooped toward the draw were covered in tufts of yellow flowers, calling butterflies and bees from their winter sleep.

Limbs growing from each branch at 90-degree angles give the bush its name, crooks easy to spot before the limbs leaf out.

The elbow bush is not bushy or overwhelming of its place, its perfume only intoxicates when your nose is upon the flower, and yet when the yellow tufts catch and hold the sunlight that dapples through the trees into the draw, the spectacle is loveliness, commanding attention like a princess entering the room.

The sight is worth the trek.

I skirted around to a different gorge not expecting to match the experience of seeing the elbow bush in bloom.

When will I learn that the wonderment of nature is to expect the unexpected?

At the halt of this gorge is a small cave opening and a low limestone wall decorated with moss and ferns. Strewn on the ground are rocks and leaves, tossed by winter and water and wind and pigs and deer.

By instinct my eye focuses on the opening, black and mysterious, a question never answered because the passage is too narrow.

And then, my eye shifts to the chaos of toppled leaf and limb until it fixes on a surprise —

anemones.

Below the moss and fern wall, a colony of anemones spring from a pock-marked ledge, carved out like Swiss cheese by water dissolved through the limestone over years — a tale of time.

Unlike the anemones on the hill, these grow fully exposed — leaves, stems and flowers all showing.

The lower leaves are in clumps of either green or purple and their contrast against the gray stone and the surrounding scattering of leaf litter is soft and pleasing.

The slender stems are bare except for one tutu-looking set of leaves about half way up toward the flower.

They remind me of a mid-century modern floor lamp with a small circular table top set at the height of the sofa arm, a feature added to serve.

The flowers are pure white.

A common name for this species, Anemone, edwardsiana, is a Two-flower Anemone. It grows only in Texas on the Edwards Plateau.

As before, in this place of quiet I can listen and think — about hopes, dreams, loves, loss, work, play, friends, family, and how did my car taillight get busted?

I sat on the rich, moist soil of the shaded gorge and saw in that moment the delicate stems, some straight and some curved, all stretched upward, hoisting their open flowers like hope lifted in prayer.

And they were still, perfectly. Not one was trembling.

What could these frail flowers know of their tiny existence on a giant planet, itself insignificant in size to the universe? Or, maybe the embrace of the draw, like hugs and support from loved ones, surrounds them with strength to stand secure?

But oh, to quake with excitement in the sunshine!

Then I remembered the only other place on the ranch where I’d seen the two-flower anemone.

Two years ago, near the end of spring at the bottom of a gorge along a small cliff wall, I found three brown anemone stems with dried and faded flowers. Curious to catch them blooming, I climbed out of this gorge and headed into another with the light of the day dimming.

Did the three little plants survive the seasons since, or would my third gorge walk for the day end in disappointment?

Again, when will I learn that the wonderment of nature is to expect the unexpected?

Again, the trek down was a challenge.

Again, the destination called up an unaccountable power as I paused at what I saw.

The little plants not only survived but there was a profusion of flowers on the cliff wall and on the slopes of the gorge.

The sweet surprise and happiness at seeing the otherwise leaf mulched earth, dotted with pure white hopes lifted, was delightful.

Each flower so soft like falling snow, yet in unison their blossoming rose like rejoicing — an exceedingly beautiful effect.

I sat a while among the flowers.

Anemones.

Trembling or full of fight? Find strength to stand when you can’t get up and know love surrounds you to help.

Find exhilaration in the sunshine.

Take Comfort.