Scattering, Sprouting, Surrendering
Spring Wanderings
Spring is not gentle.
It arrives all at once and not at all.
Stuttering between sun and frost, wind and rainfall.
It often makes a mess of my carefully laid winter plots and plans.
Just when I think I’ve settled, unexpected change starts sprouting--
reaching, rooting, rushing forward.
This season always surprises me.
Not because I don’t expect it--
but because I forget how alive the in-between can feel.
Scattering
Lately, I feel like seeds—
scattered.
Ideas, plans, intentions… thrown wide, some with care, some in a flurry of desperation. I’ve over-planted, as I always do. Started too many things. Said yes before I knew how much space I had left to give.
But that’s part of spring, too: the chaotic casting of what might take root. Not every seed is meant to grow. Some were meant to be offered—to the wind, to the soil, to the uncertainty of possibility.
Letting them go has been its own kind of magic.
Sprouting
And then—something pushes through the dirt, reaching for the sun.
A new idea finds traction. The sprouts don’t apologize for their need to stretch or for their hunger for light.
They just grow.
I’m learning to follow that impulse in myself.
To trust the small, green yeses.
To remember that growth isn’t always tidy. It splits seed coats and breaks through hardened soil.
It’s awkward.
Sometimes, it flops over.
But it’s still sacred.
Surrendering
Then there's the hardest part—
letting go of control.
Surrendering to the pace of the season.
Surrendering, knowing that I'm not in a rut—
I'm growing roots.
This surrender is not the same as giving up.
It’s a kind of alignment. Listening. Being willing to root where I’ve landed and bloom anyway.
Spring isn’t just a season. It’s a teacher. And this year, it’s reminding me that magic isn’t always polished—it’s in the scatter, in the mess, in the uncertain unfolding. The beauty is in the becoming.
And becoming takes time.
With in on my fingers and dirt under my nails,
