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A few years ago someone told me about a special place here in Israel, where the cyclamen already blooms by November. He made me swear not to reveal its whereabouts, in order to avoid the immediate arrival of tens of groups of tourists, similar to those who come to see the blooming of crocuses or lupines or “carpets of anemones,” as they are referred to here. I swore not to tell, took a trip there, and discovered he was right, the cyclamens there really do bloom in November, and not only that—they produce flowers before green leaves. I asked those in the know what the meaning of this behavior is and was told this is a different variety of cyclamen.

The cyclamens in my garden blossom in regular fashion: at the beginning of winter their tubers return to life and produce green foliage that begins to photosynthesize and provides nutrients to both the leaves and flowers that the plant produces some weeks later. At first I assumed they produce leaves because of the rain, sensing the moisture, but once I forgot about a few tubers I had wrapped in newspaper and put in a bucket in the larder, a place where there is neither light nor rainfall. When I finally remembered them, I discovered they were trying to produce leaves. They were doing it, I surmised, because they sensed the drop in temperature.

Either way, time passed, and a few years later a number of cyclamen plants flowered in November, and they did so before producing leaves. Had a different variety sprung up in my garden, too? Perhaps it was simple jealousy, an attempt to recapture my heart and curtail my visits to those special cyclamens? While I was still wondering about all this, the anemones bloomed early as well, and that same year they were in flower by December.

Again, I do not remember the exact year it happened, but I do remember that the pattern of rain that year was a little problematic. Winter began early, with a particularly cold and rainy week, and immediately afterward there was a long dry spell. I suppose the rain and the cold roused my cyclamens, but the aridity and heat that followed prompted them to bring forth flowers before leaves, because at such difficult hours they preferred to be fruitful and multiply for the next generation, and only later worried about themselves and their own nutrition by producing green leaves to photosynthesize.

The words “preferred” and “worried” may be misleading. Is it possible that my cyclamen plants are able to think and make calculations? That they remember, learn from experience, and make plans? Did they show motherly altruism here, deciding to starve themselves for the good of future generations? And perhaps evolution forged within them a few operational programs that were awaiting realization according to external conditions?

Since I am no scientist, I allow myself to hypothesize not just hypotheses but feelings. Mostly the feeling of anxiety that fills the bulbs and tubers, and—even more than that—the seeds. Geophytes—plants possessing bulbs and tubers—have independent food-storage organs available in times of need, but the seed concealed beneath the soil waiting for rain is equipped with energy supplies purely for the germination and growth of a small root and a few leaflets, and from this time forth it must make do with sunlight, rainwater, and the goodness of the soil. It must proceed cautiously because the moment sprouting occurs, there is no opportunity to stop, let alone go backward. If it sprouts in November and rain fails to fall in December, there is a chance it might die. Then what will it do? I can almost hear the anxious conversations taking place underground: To sprout? Now? Did anyone catch the weather forecast? Is it worth waiting for more rain? Or maybe next year?

In more difficult areas, such as the desert, there are seeds that can wait years in dry ground until a wet and rainy season persuades them to sprout. And then they rise up in their multitudes and flower, bestowing upon us the rare and wonderful sight of hills covered with grass and a bounteous and astonishing desert in bloom. This was the case in the winter of 2014–15 when the Judean Desert and Negev riverbeds were enveloped in green and purple, pink and white, yellow and red. The same happened in the winter of 1991–92, and I recall taking a German poet, who was visiting Israel, for a quick trip to the Judean Desert. Mutual friends asked me to do this on the assumption that the desert landscape would be a new and unique experience for our German visitor.

As I mentioned, this was a particularly rainy winter, and the desert was enjoying it, too. Water flowed through the ravines, and the arid landscape was entirely green. Dense grass and plentiful flowers covered the hills. The German poet, a hefty, likable guy, sat next to me in the car. He seemed rather bored. “Wilhelm,” I told him, “you need to understand we’re in the desert, where it’s usually arid and everything is brown and yellow. You’re lucky to see a miracle that only happens once in decades.”

The poet smiled at me convivially, scanned the landscape tiredly, and said, “Just like Bavaria.”

I was not insulted. “Yes,” I said, “just like Bavaria,” and decided to forgo an explanation on seeds, bulbs, and precipitation in the Middle East. But I returned from this with an unexpected gain: the expression “just like Bavaria” joined my dictionary of expressions, and I use it often. Whenever someone promises I will see something extraordinary, or gives me a taste of some particularly delectable delicacy, or takes me to an outstanding exhibition or a place with an exceptional view, and the reality does not match expectations that were aroused by the promise—I taste, I look, I sniff around, I exclaim, “Just like Bavaria,” and when they wonder what on earth I mean, I say I am merely quoting from a German poem.