A reflection on balance, beauty, and the soft approach of spring

This morning began with golden light and an unseasonably warm breeze. By late morning, the thermometer had already climbed to 75°F, and I threw open the windows to welcome in the fresh air. The scent of warming earth drifted through the house—sweet and familiar. Outside, the Middle Tennessee hills gleamed under the sun, and though the trees still stood mostly bare, there were signs of stirring life.

The red maples in my yard—always the eager ones—had burst forth with tiny scarlet blossoms. Those early blooms felt like whispered promises: Spring is coming. Life is returning. A lone honeybee floated past the window, and two lazy flies buzzed on the sill—small scouts of the changing season. Even those tiny moments made me pause. There’s something so sacred about noticing when the earth begins to shift again.

The workday that followed was full.

I sat with client after client, holding stories that carry deep pain and long histories of trauma. As a counselor, it is both an honor and a weight. To hold space for someone’s healing is sacred work—but it is not without cost. By the end of each session, I could feel the emotional heaviness settling into my shoulders.

To stay grounded, I turned to something simple: crochet.

It may sound small, but the rhythm of looping yarn between my fingers, even for a few minutes between sessions, has become a kind of embodied prayer. A steadying practice. Each soft stitch offers a quiet reset, helping me regulate my own nervous system so I can remain fully present for the next person who walks through the door. In a world full of noise and need, this small ritual brings me back to myself.

By early afternoon, both my senior pup Maci and I needed a break.

We took lunch out onto the patio. The sun was gentle and kind, warm on our backs. I sat on the steps with a sandwich and watched Maci trot into the yard, her white-tipped tail wagging softly. She found a patch of sunlight, turned her sweet face toward the breeze, and gave one of those long, contented dog sighs that sounds like home.

That moment—quiet, ordinary, sunlit—anchored me.

There was nothing to fix. Nothing to process. Just sunshine, and the joy of a beloved dog resting in it. It reminded me that wholeness doesn’t always come in grand revelations. Sometimes it comes in sandwiches on the porch and shared silence with someone you love.

As evening falls, I find myself reflecting on the fullness of the day—and the quiet balance that held it all together.

There was emotional labor.
There was care.
There was presence.
And woven throughout… there was beauty.

I am grateful tonight.

For the warm wind that carried spring’s early song.
For the work of healing, even when it’s heavy.
For the rhythm of the hook and yarn that reminded me to breathe.
For Maci’s soft joy and the reminder to savor, not rush.
For the way it all held together.

Today was not perfect. But it was meaningful.
And that’s enough.

As I step into tomorrow, I want to carry this rhythm with me—
Gratitude.
Balance.
And hope for what’s still blooming.