The ground is still cold. Dense and unyielding, dark with winter’s long memory. When I press my palm to it, I can feel how the chill lingers just beneath the surface, how the earth has not yet forgotten the frost. And yet, something stirs.

Beneath that cold soil, roots begin to wake. Not boldly. Not all at once. They move with a kind of ancient wisdom, responding to longer days and softer light and the subtle promise carried on the air. The plants do not wait for comfort. They do not demand warmth before beginning. They understand, instinctively, that growth often starts in imperfect conditions.

A green shoot pushes upward, pale and tentative, meeting resistance at every inch. The soil is heavy. The mornings are sharp. The nights still threaten to harden the ground again. And still, it rises. This is not haste. It is trust.
I stand for a moment and bask in the quiet courage of it. The way progress is made slowly, invisibly, long before anything looks like spring. I let it invite me to my own becoming.

What in you is waking, even while the ground is still cold? What might you allow to begin, gently, imperfectly, simply because it is time? Kindly respond with a story from your life that relates to this letter.