I write to you perched on a small hill, a magnificent place where five paths meet in the old beech forest near my home. The fields at the edge of the estate are still flooded, but small islands of bright green grass mark the first beginnings of Spring. The soft breeze makes my heart melt. The wind has lost its sharp edge, bearing a faint sweetness.
I have been walking in this forest since last Winter, and it struck me how everything still looks the same. I know every trunk has grown a little wider, every crown a little taller, but nature’s progress can feel slow to my mind’s eye.
Growth is a constant I can depend on if I dare to trust in it. With my imagination, I can soar far ahead, willing things to grow faster, desiring to see results sooner, hovering above my life instead of being fully in it. My dreams are exciting, and I risk getting impatient, prematurely digging up the seeds I sowed to evaluate their progress, and killing them in the process.
It helps me to remember organic growth is almost invisible to my naked eye, but when I reflect on myself a few years ago, I can see how much I have grown. Most dreams I then had have fully revealed themselves in my life.
Time is a peculiar thing. Year after year, I’m unravelling layers of myself, returning to the same point each cycle, still very much the same, but perhaps a little closer to Source and my dream on Earth. I have learned to trust and focus on my current dreams, patiently working towards their full realisation without keeping track or fretting about my progress.
Right about now, things will start moving again, and I will continue working on the fullest expression of my life, inspired by my dreams in Winter. Nothing has changed at its core, but it feels like a different world.
Published on by Sacha Post. This essay is part of the weekly letters. Explore more essays on spring in the archives.