A Spring Reflection

 There is a quiet kindling in the air again. After the long hush of winter, something stirs—tender, almost imperceptible at first, like the breath of a dream returning. The days begin to loosen their heavy coats of shadow, and morning light spills more freely across the land, not as a command but as an invitation.

Spring arrives not with fanfare but with a deep remembering, as if the very soil recalls an ancient covenant it once made with light. There is a softness to its coming, a reverence in its touch, as though the earth bows gently toward something holy. Green begins to edge along the branches, shy at first, like a whispered promise. Flowers, once hidden in the dark folds of the earth, now begin to speak in color. Their petals are not merely decoration; they are proclamations—small, radiant hymns of trust.

One can almost feel the earth exhale, stretching out of its cold slumber with the innocence of something just born. It carries no bitterness for the frost that held it. It does not resist the thaw. Instead, it yields and unfurls, giving itself again to growth. In this, there is a kind of wisdom. The land does not argue with the seasons—it surrenders to the rhythm that shapes it, knowing each phase holds its own necessity.

To walk through spring is to be reminded of what it means to begin again. There is something profoundly humbling in watching the return of life—not as a novelty, but as a sacred recurrence. We are drawn into its renewal not as spectators but as participants, for something in us also longs to be made new. We, too, carry dormant seeds within us—dreams left resting in the winter of our own hearts. Perhaps now is the time to turn to them, to offer them warmth and patience, and to believe in their flowering.

There are moments in spring when the world seems lit from within, as though it has remembered something vital it had forgotten. The breeze moves with a kind of music, and the birds—those perennial heralds of joy—compose their choruses as if they’ve never sung before. Their songs do not explain; they bless. They rise into the sky as prayers without words.

And what of us? How do we stand in this season of rebirth?

We, too, are part of this great turning. Within our lives lie layers—some bright with bloom, others barren from sorrow. And yet, spring does not ask us to be perfect; it only asks us to be willing. Willing to soften where we have hardened. Willing to listen again to the deeper rhythms. Willing to risk the vulnerability of growth, to stretch toward a light we cannot always name.

Spring is not a denial of winter; it is its deepening. For what is beauty if it has not known brokenness? What is flowering if not the courage to emerge from beneath the weight of what has been?

This season speaks not of escape but of return. A return to wonder, to trust, to that ancient knowing that life, despite all, continues to rise. The earth does not forget how to be beautiful. Neither do we. It is written in us, this impulse toward becoming. Even in the tired corners of our being, even in the places where we feel least alive—there is the potential for greening.

Let this be a time of tenderness. A time to walk slowly, to notice the unfolding. Let us speak less and listen more—to the rain as it speaks against the roof, to the crocus breaking open the earth, to the stillness between birdsong. There is wisdom hidden in these moments, waiting not to be mastered but met.

To live in spring is to live in blessing. And yet, it does not require that we be unscarred. In truth, it welcomes the weathered soul, the one who has known winters of the heart. It says, Come as you are. Bring your ache, your hope, your trembling. The light does not judge you—it merely seeks to touch you.

And so we come—quietly, humbly—to stand among the blooming trees and remember: we belong to a story far older than our forgetting. A story of life that will not be extinguished. A story that keeps rising, again and again, clothed in green, singing of beginnings.

All my Love and Light,
An