Spring Equinox

I woke up this morning to bird song, something I haven't heard for months. It’s subtle at first, that shift between winter and spring—the light stretching just a little farther into the evening, the air carrying the scent of thawing earth. But today, it feels undeniable. The sun rises a little stronger, a little bolder, as if shaking off its own hibernation.

Spring equinox is the great balance point of the year, the moment when day and night stand in perfect equality before the sun begins its steady climb toward the heights of summer. It’s a threshold, a doorway between what was and what is becoming. I feel it in my bones—the way winter’s heaviness starts to lift, the way my own spirit seems to stretch toward the light. Maybe you feel it too—that quiet but insistent nudge to begin again, to plant something new, whether in the soil or in your soul.

Up in the foothills where I live, the snow is beginning to loosen its grip. Patches of brown grass and damp earth peek through, as if waking up from a long nap. And the horses—the horses know. Their coats, thick and woolly from the winter, begin to shed in great clouds of hair. Brush in hand, I stand among them,  feeling the shift of seasons in each stroke. It’s a ritual, this shedding, this letting go—an undeniable sign that winter is truly releasing us.

There is a spirituality in this season, in the way the earth teaches us how to transition, how to soften, how to emerge. Winter teaches endurance, but spring reminds us that endurance is not the only way. There is also joy. There is also growth. There is also the sacred act of beginning again—not from scratch, but from wisdom earned through the quiet months of waiting.

Maybe that’s why the expanding daylight feels like a blessing. It’s not just about longer hours or warmer afternoons; it’s about possibility. It’s about feeling the sun on your face and remembering that you, too, are part of this great rhythm of life—called to grow, to stretch, to bloom in your own time. The horses don’t fight the shedding. The snow doesn’t resist the melt. They surrender to the inevitable movement of the season. And maybe that’s our invitation, too.

So, as the equinox arrives, I invite you to step outside. Feel the air shift. Watch the way the light lingers just a little longer. Notice what within you is ready to shed, to melt, to begin again. And trust that, just like the earth, you are made for renewal.