First Hints of Spring

I’m walking along the evergreen hillocks of the meadow. The grass is just beginning to blush green again, the sun is finally out, and even though winter still lingers, today feels like a whisper of what’s to come.

It’s one of those rare, clear days where you can see the future field—the full bloom of summer in your mind, though your boots still brush dry stalks and pockets of snow. The mountains have not seem fit to let go of their white shroud, bringing us yet again another blanket of spring snow.

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The sky above is a watercolor of blue and soft cloud. Light stretches across the land in golden sheets. The trees haven’t yet budded, but the energy is shifting. I can feel it—just under the surface—everything is beginning to turn.

I’m dressed lightly for the first time in months—linen pants, a sweater. No jacket. Just the sun on my face and the breeze brushing past. Snow clings to the shadier spots, but the rest of the meadow exhales softly into spring.

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At the edge of the woods, the sun slips through the trees like it’s painting everything awake. The forest is still. Birds begin their tentative conversations. Graham pads softly ahead of me, alert and quiet, weaving between the last snow patches and the promise of new green.

And then—movement.

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I look up just in time to meet a deer’s gaze. She’s watching me from the edge of the woods, her body poised, half-shadowed by bare branches. A few others bound silently behind her. We startled each other. And yet—for a moment—we share something quiet and reverent.

Graham freezes, too, watching with the same hushed wonder I feel.

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I love how the forest shifts throughout the day. This moment—close to 4 p.m.—has a very different energy than the morning walks. Nothing ever feels the same. The light, the sounds, the rhythm. It reminds me that the world is always becoming something new.

And maybe I am, too.

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I don’t know exactly what’s next in my life or career—but for once, I’m not panicked. I’m not rushing. I’m just here. Breathing. Rooting.

This soft season I’m entering isn’t less work—it’s just more aligned. More mine. It feels like I’ve finally shed the version of myself that stayed for others, for safety, for survival. And I’ve stepped into the version that’s walking this field.

The one who moved here for this very reason.

The one who kept the quiet promise:

There is more to life.

And I’m ready to find it.

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Until the next note—thanks for walking with me,

- Rachel