Bouncing Into Spring Without Pulling a Muscle
and my thoughts on life, death, seeds, and intentions
The most difficult thing is the decision to act. The rest is merely tenacity. The fears are paper tigers. You can do anything you decide to do. You can act to change and control your life and the procedure. The process is its own reward.
~ Amelia Earhart
TW: This post discusses death and dying in a totally respectful, reverent way
Spring has been a hot topic this week. Makes sense, considering the spring equinox and transition into fiery Aries season last week.
I’m sure I’m not the only one who felt a surge of energy. Like throwing off the blankets after a long winter’s rest and greeting the sunrise with a cup of strong coffee, or maybe some hot lemon water and sun salutations—whatever your perfect morning might entail.
But then, at some point mid-week, *things* got a little tied up. It wasn’t a crash, exactly, more like a muscle cramp after taking off too fast.
And that got me thinking about spring energy. Even the word “spring” carries a certain forceful dynamic. Bursting forth after releasing from constraint. There’s nothing slow or controlled about it.
Then I thought of how yoga teachers slowly ease their yogis out of savasana by first having them wiggle their fingers and toes.
I thought of how Chani always compares planets stationing direct after a retrograde to the action of shifting a car from reverse into drive.
Maybe transitioning from winter to spring should be more like that.
Acknowledging the sacredness of slowing down and the necessary pause. Taking a moment to clear out the dust and debris that accumulated in the dark corners throughout so many weeks of long nights. Making sure we leave behind anything we no longer want to carry with us before shifting forward.
Accelerating, but gently, until the momentum carries us with ease.
My point is, changing seasons is the gradual turn of a wheel, not the flip of a switch. I don’t know who else needs this gentle reminder, but I sure did last week.
Starting Seeds and Contemplating Life and Death
Spring has also got me thinking a lot about seeds, both literally and metaphorically.
In the literal sense, I spent time last Monday sorting through our collection of seeds from previous years, then placed an order with High Mowing.* I’m excited to grow lots more flowers for botanical salves and try my hand at microgreens!
Metaphorically, I checked in with the intentions I set for myself on the Winter Solstice and realized my day-to-day actions last week didn’t align with the life I want for myself. This morning, I drew The Emperor tarot card again and took it as a sign to renew my commitment to taking small steps every day.
The last thing this shift into spring has me thinking about is death. It may sound weird. Spring is often associated with new life and rebirth. But I can’t help thinking of life and death as two sides of the same coin. Inseparable.
Maybe it’s because I’m reading The Book of Two Ways by Jodi Picoult,* a novel about an Egyptology scholar turned death doula. The book was recommended by Hayley and reading it has brought me into a new layer of grieving her loss.
It’s also just a really fuckin’ great book I highly recommend.
But even before I started reading that book, death felt like a relevant Ostara/Spring Equinox topic.
I remember scrolling through the Instagram feed of a healer friend and stopping at a photo of a dead mole surrounded by flowers. It was a post from Ostara last year. In the caption, she explained that nothing truly dies. That the mole’s body and the flowers she laid around it would decompose. They’d compost into the soil and nourish the life that lay ahead.
Then, she invited readers to pause and think about death and honor its significance during this time.
While the post threw me off at first, I ended up thinking, “yeah, that’s about right.”
In the coming weeks, I’ll be digging my fingers into the earth and mixing compost into my garden beds. I’ll say a prayer of thanks to the plants and animals who contributed the organic material that’ll feed my garden.
I’ll sow seeds that only exist because the plants who bore them are no longer alive.
And I’ll remember that every day I wake up and see the sunrise is a magical, fleeting gift.
Thank you for reading, and congratulations on surviving another winter.
I love you,
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