spring equinox musings: the practice of noticing and sitting in discomfort

In the past few years I've been more consciously living in tune with the energetic fluctuations of the seasons. While the comforts of modern living may negate the reality of what it would actually be like to live in surrender to the will of nature, I enjoy implementing small practices that make me feel connected to the natural world in some way. I try to practice small ways of living by the seasons, such as eating seasonal produce, allowing more days of rest in the winter, and starting new projects and resolutions in the spring instead of new year's in the middle of winter. Small practices of living with the change around me instead of fighting against it.

Over time, these active practices have begun to settle into my body in a more subtle way. I have begun to notice a palpable shift in my body and my thoughts with each season. I've begun to feel less resistance to the cold winter air. The long dark days that used to weigh me down in a seasonal affective bog have started to feel like an invitation to slow down and turn inward to take inventory of my inner resources. Seeing dead trees used to make me feel empty and sad, but now empty branches are an exciting invitation to get to know the anatomy of the trees better. I've even found more delight in rain, something I've always enjoyed, as I've started to take note of the way rain feels different depending on the season. Becoming more appreciative of the nuances of the seasons has lead me to naturally begin to pick up on little messages from nature.

A few weeks ago on a warm day in February I was on a short hike. The ground was mostly covered in dried up brown leaves and rich dirt, damp from the defrosting snowbanks lining the trail path. As I walked, I began to notice tiny bright yellow flowers peeking up through the snow and the old brown leaves. A little bit further down I saw the same thing with little patches of green sprouting plants. For some reason, seeing flowers coming out of the snow in the middle of February was particularly fascinating this year. It made me wonder how many times I've seen this before and not thought anything of it. I wonder if the yellow flowers -- the early arrivers -- serve as brave pioneers surveying the land early and sending messages back down underground to let other seeds of life know what to expect. How many other subtle conversations are happening all around us if we stop to notice?

Something I've enjoyed since I was a kid is witnessing the migration patterns of the birds. We used to have a pair of mallard ducks visit us every spring in the creek outside my house. There's no way to know if it was the same pair of ducks that would visit, but they would always come in a pair as soon as the weather became warm. The last few years living in Boston was a fun way to experience the goose migrations first hand. Geese wander along the Charles River esplanade in plenty during the spring and summer, and then they make their way elsewhere in the cold months. Just the other day I was sitting in my room when I started to hear a flock of honking geese. I looked out the window and saw a cloud of geese flying in the most majestic looking arrow formation I've seen coming directly my way. There were so many geese that they were flying in multiple V formations right behind each other. I ran outside to get a better look and I swear I could feel the sound of their honking reverberate through me. In my human understanding it so clearly felt like the geese were announcing their arrival for the return of spring, and I desperately wonder if they really are signaling to the ecosystem that it's time to begin waking up. Long ago did people await the proclamation of the geese, declaring the first mark of spring?

I have recently started to dive deeper into my curiosities about the world of plant identification, foraging and herbalism, which is a long road that I am excited to embark on. As part of this I have begun learning about how to read different trees and interpret their signals. It has reconnected me to a part of my inner child that used to know the trees in my backyard on a soul level. Long before I ever knew the names and categories of different tree species, I knew the trees in a way that felt so natural and familiar that there was no question in my mind that I was simply part of the land around me. As we grow older and learn to view ourselves as separate from nature, it can feel strange and childish to try to return to some of the inherent knowledge that we posses as children, but I truly believe that there is so much wisdom in the simple act of interacting in play with the environments we find ourselves in.

Taking notes from the plant world, spring feels like a time for newness and growth. I've been thinking about what intentions I want to bring into this new season of growth, and a lot has to do with getting back in touch with my inner knowing of nature, and implementing small, almost imperceptible practices that add up over time instead of making any big declarations of change. An overarching theme of my life over the past year is the practice of doing things out of my comfort zone until my comfort zone expands. One of my goals in this realm is expanding my capacity for sitting in observation. In the digital world that we live in, I sometimes wonder if the act of noticing is increasingly fading away. It is so easy to whiz through the day in a mindless fog. I know that I struggle with this more that I'd like to admit. Sitting in the present moment without distractions is uncomfortable work. If it was easy we probably wouldn't all be living in the tech dependent crisis that we find ourselves in. But in pursuit of living a life that feels nourishing and engaging, I feel motivated to practice sitting in discomfort more, building tapas, and seeing what good can come from a little friction.