A Soft Return

This afternoon, Graham and I walked through the field, marveling at how much snow has already melted. In true golden retriever fashion, he found the last few lingering patches to roll in, but most of the meadow had been transformed—from blanketed white hills to golden tufts of helix grass, quietly waiting for the first blooms of spring.

The sky is overcast, and the morning brings rain, as early April often does. But the air has shifted. There’s warmth on the wind now—faint but undeniable.

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This week, we begin in The Still Meadow—a quiet corner of the field where early spring takes its first breath. Here, the wind moves gently from the bordering woodlands, brushing over soft hills just beginning to stir. The bite of winter is fading, and small signs of life are beginning to surface.

Graham found a little hill of grass to rest in, a warm refuge from months of snow. Like him, the woodland creatures are starting to open their eyes again. This meadow will slowly change in the coming weeks—but for now, it asks only for presence.

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Spring is often associated with growth, motion, and rebirth. And while that’s true, what we often forget is that growth begins in stillness. Renewal doesn’t rush.

We’ve been quiet all winter—because winter demands quiet. And now, as the season turns, I invite you to honor the slowness of early spring. Resist the urge to over-plan or burst forward. Let yourself wake gently, like the meadow underfoot.

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As we walked home across the field, I could see the world beginning to shift. Spiders, ants, and small signals scurried across the thawing ground. At the tree line, moisture clung to the trunks—left behind by melting snow. The pines, our steadfast green companions through winter, seemed to sigh in relief, too. Even they are changing.

From a distance, the field might still look barren. But up close, life is everywhere—if we have the eyes to see and the softness to stay.

Until the next note—thank you for walking with me.

-Rachel