Spring (a.k.a. Ostara) arrived on March 20, 2026.
At least, this is what we were told.
Outside, there was snow. Not a delicate dusting either — the sort of committed, slightly aggressive, snow (up to 10 cm) that suggests winter did not get the memo about balance and renewal.
And yet… here we are.
The Spring Equinox — that moment of equal light and dark, where everything is supposed to feel fresh, balanced, and quietly hopeful.
Instead, I am sitting here with a slightly unsettled stomach, a body that is still recovering from doing too much two days ago, and a very clear understanding that renewal does not happen on command.
It happens when it is ready.
A few days ago, I had what I will generously call an enthusiastic day.
Two long walks. A bus trip into the city for the first time in almost a year. Snow, wind, crowds, noise, motion sickness, questionable decision-making, and a heroic but unnecessary commitment to proving that I could, in fact, do all the things.
By the end of it, I could not.
And the body, as it does, took over the scheduling.
Recovery, it turns out, is not elegant.
It looks like:
– naps that arrive without invitation
– a stomach that remains suspicious for 72 hours
– the quiet realisation that even “easy” things are not yet easy
– and the deeply humbling understanding that capacity has edges
This is not failure.
This is information.
The Spring Equinox speaks of balance.
But balance is not perfection. It is not symmetry. It is not waking up on March 20th filled with motivation and a tidy list of intentions.
Balance is responsiveness.
It is noticing: “Ah. We have done enough.”
And then — this is the crucial part —
actually stopping.
Yesterday, I did very little.
I made pannekaker (Norwegian pancakes — similar to crepes) for dinner and ate them (All of them — each as they were finished), standing at the counter, as is tradition, burning my fingers and mouth slightly — and not wanting to learn from that experience at all. No filling needed, just revelling in the soft fluffiness and the comfort of memories made with love.
It was, frankly, perfect.
No productivity. No catching up. No quiet panic about what “should” be done.
Just food, warmth, and a body slowly returning to itself.
So this is my offering for the Equinox:
Not a list of intentions.
Not a plan for reinvention.
Not a gentle but firm suggestion that you “step into your highest self.”
(Your highest self would like a nap, by the way.)
Instead:
Stand in the light, if it is available.
Rest, if you are tired.
Eat something warm.
Let the season change without supervising it.
Because here is the truth, quietly spoken:
Nothing in nature rushes into spring.
The ground thaws slowly.
Roots wake up in their own time.
And sometimes, it snows.
🌿 Ritual
Step outside, or stand by a window.
Take one slow breath.
Notice the light — even if it is reflecting off snow.
That is all. That is enough.
🌿 Diffuser Blend
Lemon – 2 drops
Rosemary – 2 drops
🌿 Why This Blend Works
This blend supports gentle transition.
Lemon brings lightness and mental clarity, helping to lift heaviness without forcing energy.
Rosemary supports steady awareness and balanced focus, encouraging forward movement without urgency.
Together, they create a sense of quiet renewal — not a push, but an opening.
⚖️ Gentle Note
Use what supports you. Leave the rest. Your body knows the timing better than any calendar.
🧙♀️ Footnote
Spring does not arrive all at once.
Neither do you.