It's the morning of my birthday and the gloomy mantle is finally slipping from the shoulders of the world. The air smells of new possibilities, honey dewdrops and fresh grass. It’s wonderful how this year's spring arrived without any announcement, it's just here again. And as I watch the heart of my garden softening from my writing desk’s window, I am filled with this cliché desire to think about spring: both the springs of this world and the springs of living. I have been noticing the voices that speak from the ink of printed pages and from the glare of computer screens. They speak of milestones, achievements stacked tall and names carved on shiny trophies. At twenty-eight, my hands hold few of them. No glistening medal bears my name. No ledger lists my contributions in fine ink. I notice these voices striding an invisible path toward a distant peak. I stand slightly apart. While everyone admires the mountain summit, my attention remains on the flower fields blossoming down here in the valley.

This spring, I feel a lightness blossoming inside. It does not come from a place of defiance, but not from indifference either. It feels like a snowdrop stem pushing through the last crust of frost. The expectations of the world lie like heavy stones scattered on the ground. Yet, I feel no urge to lift anything. I walk around their inert forms. The sudden, piercing blue of a bird’s wing against the woods pulls my attention instead. It feels so comfortable here! The witnessing of this unfolding feels very important to me. Noticing the branches transforming into pale-green limbs overnight requires my attention. Standing perfectly still as the first bumblebee stumbles between the flowers under the April sun demands all my patience. The world blooms in a extravagant but spontaneous way. It follows no planning, just obeys nature.

I am learning this through observance. This blossoming has been revealing itself quite sluggishly: it happens petal by petal by petal. It lives in the small attentions paid and in the daily devotions carried. But it taught me that the sweetness of the first blushing flower has a meaning, and the way light falls gold and liquid on the pond at dusk holds a lesson. My homework is this act of seeing, naming, and holding of moments in the cupped hands of my attention. Most importantly, I noticed how the sloe buds have remained closed tight, like hard little knots clenched against the lingering cold. From here, it almost looks like they are guarding a secret. They show no concern that the daffodils next to them have already flung wide their yellow trumpets. They simply stand in their own invisible confidence, knowing that the rising of the sun cannot be rushed. I have spent a long time admiring them from this window. I feel a certain kinship between us. Maybe my own buds feel closed shut too?

I suppose the sloe buds have been teaching me to let others keep their own measuring. Let them tally their visible gains. My ledger fills in a different way. The twirling movement of the returning birds draws curious little shapes upon it. The peaty smell of earth finally free of frost scents the pages. With this, I began telling myself: Forced blossoming yields only hollow flowers. Mine will come when the roots find enough depth. It will come when the inner season aligns with the outer light. I'm a wilder blossom, finding my form. Spring is already here, regardless. I am still learning how to blossom. Only, this time, I am not writing a schedule. I am telling myself that there is no rush. The sunlight lengthens across my garden. Spring sings that same old hymn. Something tender surges within, something persistent reaches and something undeniable prepares to blossom. This is enough. In fact, this is everything. This April, I will tend to the garden within. This work itself, I think, is a kind of flourishing too.