Lessons from the Trees: A New Kind of Spring

Learning to Honor the Seasons of our Lives

Being Present to Subtle Changes

This morning the first, timid shoots of spring began to appear on the trees in my backyard, the buds slowly opening to new greens after holding tight for weeks. 

I’ve been watching closely as they waited patiently for exactly the right moment— 

A day earlier and they would have been drenched in torrential rains. Three days earlier and they would have been blown off their limbs by gale-force winds.

I’m not used to being so attuned to this level of spring subtlety.

In the ten years I’ve lived in Québec, this is the first spring I’ve watched bloom in real time.

Canadian spring has a bad reputation in my mind because instead of the beautiful blooming flowers of my youth, there’s a long period where the snow is melting and the world is just mud.

While the ground slowly thaws, the only thing that appears to bloom is litter. As the snow melts, trash that was covered over by a blanket of white all winter pokes up from the ground all at once.

Frankly, it’s gross.

So I’ve always skipped “mud and litter season” here in Québec.

Instead, I usually head home to California around the end of March to spend Easter with my family and watch the daffodils and dandelions bloom.

But this year, something new happened—

We tapped the maple trees in our little patch of forest. From late February to early April, I spent every day out in the woods.

Learning to make maple syrup was a humbling process, filled with hard labor and forces beyond our control.

My husband and I were on the edge of our seats for weeks, wondering how long the sap would keep flowing. As a result, I was more present to the subtle changes of the world around me than I’ve ever been.

The Brilliance of Nature

Here in the wild North, the snows that fall in December generally melt in April. Most years, the ground is still a crunchy white while the rest of the world is posting pictures of flowers on social media.

Even after the snows melt, the ground is still frozen. And the April showers that bring May flowers are often propelled by winds blasting off the Arctic tundra.

The world does everything it can to warn the wary buds forming on the trees to stay closed.

But this year was different.

We had a VERY mild winter. The snows that fell through January and February completely melted by early March.

I haven’t seen anything like that since I’ve been here!

Buds began to appear on the trees shortly thereafter, and I thought surely they would burst into foliage early… and regret it.

I was quietly nervous for them.

What would summer be like if spring leaves were blighted by the inevitable late frosts that were bound to come?

But Nature is brilliant.

Those little buds stayed closed tight for a month and more. 

The locals think this is completely normal, but for me, it’s strange to watch the season arrive so slowly.

Back home in California, the timeline is condensed. Once the buds appear on the trees… they bloom. One day buds appear, the next day they begin to open, and shortly thereafter, everything is covered in a riot of green.

I never really thought about the time it takes to go from one season to the next.

I always thought springtime was about flowers and rising energy. Yet growing up, it never felt very different from winter or summer—just a season with elements of both.

Here in Québec, Spring is a creature unto herself—
A distinct season between winter and summer with her own unique qualities.

The most surprising part for me is that I LOVE this new and strange version of spring.

She’s quiet like winter, but the sun is bright and welcoming. Forests become accessible in a whole new way—the snow and foliage that normally protect them stepping aside for a little while.

And there’s something so sweet about the timidity of the trees, whose buds bravely appear but refuse to burst immediately into summer greens.

Something inside of them knows they need to wait.

Honoring Our Own Cycles

One of the things I appreciate most about living in this part of the world is that we experience four distinct seasons. And they’re each so poignant and powerful that even the humans are immersed in the natural world. 

Here, no one lives separately from the seasons.

In winter, we hide from the world, hardly seeing our friends and hunkering in—physically and metaphorically.

In summer, we run around like wild folk, spending every waking moment outside and trying to get every possible project done before the snows come again.

In the fall, we experience a beautiful autumnal tristesse as we watch leaves fall and know that summer itself is dying.

And spring… well, I’m new to spring.

I’m just learning about this season of patience and quiet courage, where we face the mud and garbage so that flowers can bloom.

As modern humans, it’s easy to ignore the cycles in our own lives.

Somewhere between electric lights and climate control, we’ve lost the natural rhythm of the seasons. Or perhaps we’ve simply forgotten that we are creatures of the Earth… designed to experience ALL of the seasons—internally and externally.

When we’re feeling good, energized and positive, it’s like the summer season. It feels as if the sun is shining and the world is in bloom. Because it feels so good, we often try to cultivate our summer selves, no matter where we actually are in our cycle.  

When we’re low energy and facing difficult moods, it’s like winter, a sign for our bodies to rest and recharge. Yet when we feel that seasonal affect begin to descend upon us once again, it’s easy to feel as if there is something deeply wrong with the darkness and discomfort.

It’s easy to make ourselves wrong for not always being our summer selves.

The world doesn’t have much room for humans to express the many shades of being that are possible in daily life.

Yet all the Earth moves in cycles.

And when we deeply honor those cycles, we begin to reclaim the ancient magic of being fully human.

We can find rest and respite after long hours of work. We can find fullness and fulfillment after days spent in darkness.

Watching the trees all around me wait weeks for exactly the right moment to allow those tender green shoots to move forth from their buds, I’m inspired by their patience with themselves. I admire their recognition and remembrance that their growth process works in symbiotic harmony with all of nature.

When the buds of new growth appear in our lives, it’s easy to feel that we should be bursting into blossom. But, like the new buds of grow on the trees in spring, we must each open in our own time.

If the trees bloom too soon and the leaves are blighted by frost—it’s not only the tree who suffers, but also the birds who might find shelter there, the caterpillars who forage among the verdant foliage, and even the humans who would find shade beneath those leafy limbs. 

When we try to operate counter to our nature—we don’t just betray ourselves, we run counter to Nature herself.

We are part of an intricately interconnected web of life, and if we do not listen to the cycles of our own lives, we ignore the greater harmony occurring beneath the surface.

When we welcome all the seasons and cycles of our Selves, a deeper authenticity and magic becomes possible.

Sometimes we are up.
Sometimes we are down. 
Sometimes we are expanding. 
Sometimes we are contracting.
Sometimes we are growing.
Sometimes we are resting.
Sometimes we are energized.
Sometimes we are depressed.

Where are you in your growth cycle right now?

Lately, I’ve been growing into a lot of amazing and magical lessons—integrating new energies that are calling me into the future. But along with that process, I’m also releasing old ways of being that are incompatible with these new energies.

It’s a slow and sometimes uncomfortable process that often leaves me emotional and feeling grumpy.

Yet there is a deep sense that what is occurring is important and should not be rushed. If I bring awareness to the growth happening, I can allow space for however I’m feeling and whatever important process is occurring, however difficult.

In the quiet moments, I whisper to the trees, hoping they will impart some of the wisdom of their patience.

I look to them to remind me of the faith it takes to trust that the next season will always come when we have lived this one fully.

Exploration Questions for Journaling & Sharing:

1. What do the seasons of your life look like?

2. Do you prefer one “season” over another?

3. Are you able to allow yourself to live each season fully?

4. How do you hold onto faith that the next season will come?

5. How do the seasons of your life align with the seasons of the natural world?

6. Do you have patience with yourself?

Feel free to share your answers and insights with the magical community.

We’d love to grow with you!