Spring has arrived here as if a doorway has been opened into a dreamscape of tranquility. It’s such a different spring from other years, almost Nordic, or perhaps I’m the one who’s different. It has lazily arrived, without haste. Of course, there’s the lengthening of daylight and the awakening of nature, but it’s all very gentle. Tree buds are still tiny or dormant, and even the birdsong is whisper quiet.
Throughout the week, I wake up too early to this sound of silence. As I open a window, I breathe deeply the smell of the mist. It’s cold and there’s a bit of rain, hail even. The house bathes in the indefinite light of the fleeting moment between sleeping and waking up. I use the peace and solitude to read and write, and I make sure the kitchen is warm and smells of coffee before the others get up.
We have guests who take things easily and despite the plans we made, this is not the time for large tasks and our usual undertakings. Instead, there’s zen meditation in the yoga room and deer encounters on an early walk. After breakfast around the kitchen stove, as new colours emerge and the character of the landscape changes from hour to hour, we put on our boots and go for a stroll under the blossom trees. We decide to have an impromptu picnic and potter about in the vegetable garden. At night, we shed petals from our hair and continue our conversations about life over a slow dinner.
I’ve been feeling restless recently with busy days when I seemingly need to have everything planned in order to fit it into our packed schedules. But everything has its proper time. So, I feel gratitude for this silent spring. And for experiencing it here with beautiful people we can now call friends. We’re in the presence of a powerful lightness that moves at its own pace, a tangible promise of expectation, for my own creativity and for the dreams we have for our project.