I have one ambition in life unlikely to earn me any medals: I want to watch plants grow. I did sit down once, years ago, to witness the opening of an evening primrose flower. I don’t remember what species I had planted in my garden (most likely Oenothera macrocarpa) but I could have set a clock by the big yellow teacups that unfurled from fat buds every late afternoon. I have a clear memory of staring at a particular bud as it cracked open, seams ripping, but no memory of the full reveal. I probably became distracted from my mission by weeds, the sky at dusk, another flower, or something that needed pruning, and missed the moment. No gardener worth her salt can sit still for very long.

Sometime over the last few days, honesty, a.k.a. money plant (Lunaria annua) spiked two feet from 4-inch tall seedlings and arranged its purple flowers in tiers. It happened so quickly I’m sure if I had stopped moving long enough I could have seen them stretch. But the same time that plant was going through a growth spurt, everything else was too. It has to be enough to notice as many incremental changes as you can. Not always easy.

Wide open eyes are key. Tunnel vision is a tempting way to stay on track during the busiest season but there are too many good distractions. In any case, it’s probably more important to catch the moment maple flowers become tiny winged seeds and to mark the day goldfinch start wearing bright yellow again than to clean out the shed. Applause if you manage to get that done too.

The other day I noticed a confetti-laced puddle, which brought up a memory of a May wedding I attended some years back. The bride and groom took their vows under a shower of cherry tree petals. It was magical and made me understand why there are festivals all over the world during the short weeks of cherry blossom time to celebrate spring, renewal, and the transitory nature of life. That marriage didn’t last long either.

I learned a few years ago to keep my eyes on flowering dogwood buds. Back before I tracked how the teeny tiny knobs at every twig end open into teeny tiny flowers, which increase in size and translucence by the day, I saw the tree only when it was full blown. Almost too late for proper appreciation. Now I pick a few branches through early spring and put them in a vase. It’s hard to miss transformations that occur on your kitchen table.

For the last few weeks my neighbors were probably wondering why I hadn’t weeded a sea of onion grass in my front yard border. I was watching in case some of it turned out to be the blue globe onion (Allium caeruleum) I planted a couple of falls ago. By the time tidy patches of even grassier-looking foliage emerged in places I vaguely remembered tucking bulbs, the onion grass had matured to an easily graspable girth and spring rains helped release it, bulb, bulblets and all, from the soil. Not that I don’t expect a full crop to pop up again.

I wish could sit and watch perennials grow too but I’ve been busy dividing, editing, and occasionally redistributing the ones that increase at a high rate. You know I like to garden with a generous nature and don’t mind when plants spread to rub shoulders and support each other, but I get the spade out when friendly competition for space looks like it’s heading for a brawl. Of course that’s best done back in April before the growth spurt but we can’t always be so on the ball.

I do worry I won’t get everything done that needs doing in spring and most of the time I don’t come anywhere close. I’ve decided that’s OK. My mission is accomplished as long as plants keep growing and I take some time to watch.

Kristin Green is the horticulturist at Mount Hope Farm and author of 'Plantiful: Start Small, Grow Big with 150 Plants that Spread, Self-Sow, and Overwinter'. Follow her blog at trenchmanicure.com.