In California, the plant life is carefully arranged: a bush here, some roses there, a tree only until it begins to buckle up the sidewalk, then tear it down. It was one of the first things I noticed when I moved to Oregon—the way the trees and all the other green and good things are allowed to run rampant. My driveway is a knotted slope of asphalt, roots, and leaves. Ivy spreads like wild fire, engulfing my parking space, and my stairs have literally begun to tilt to one side from the massive silver pine that towers above my studio. This time of year, everything is blooming—daffodils, tulips, and crocuses appearing in the most unlikely places—and I, who have never been fond of surprises, have grown to love spring in the Northwest for just this reason. For the chance to walk out the door and watch the way everything comes alive, wherever it may have fallen.