When you hear the word spring, what comes to mind?
A tightly coiled metal spring, ready to release its energy? A season of bunnies, Easter eggs, and chocolates? Or maybe you think of the unpredictable weather—one moment warm and sunny, the next cold and rainy.
The unpredictability of spring feels fitting for the times we’re in—full of tension, uncertainty, and storms, both literal and figurative. But spring also brings a quiet promise. Even when the landscape looks bleak—gray, brown, lifeless—there are flashes of green that emerge. Signs of hope that remind us: change is always on the horizon.
Growing up in rural Ohio, those signs were crocuses, quickly followed by daffodils and hyacinths. But now I live in North Carolina, and I’ve had to find new markers of spring: our native orchids, Cypripedium acaule, also known as Pink Lady Slipper.
These rare flowers thrive in pine forests, growing only in highly acidic soil with the right conditions. Their seeds won’t even germinate without a specific underground fungus to help them grow, and over time, the plant and the fungus form a symbiotic relationship—one supporting the other in quiet, unseen ways.
Each year, I challenge myself to spot the first orchid as the weather warms. When we moved to our house in 2020, I could only find them once they were in full bloom in early May—bright bursts of pink against the forest floor. But this year, something shifted. As I’ve practiced more mindfulness, I’ve started noticing the flowers earlier. In the fading days of March, I spotted tiny, furled green leaves pushing through the pine needles—determined to emerge despite the unpredictable weather. It’s as if the flowers are reminding me that, sometimes, simply paying attention can make all the difference in noticing hope.
I find comfort in this—the reminder that there are systems and rhythms beyond the noise of the news. The plants don’t know about tariffs or wars or executive orders. They don’t worry about what’s happening in the world. They follow their own steady plan, emerging when the time is right.
So I wonder—what in your life is like these plants? What gives you hope when times are uncertain? What are the small markers of spring that bring you comfort and strength?
Maybe for you, it’s something entirely different—something small, but just as meaningful. A favorite song, the scent of rain, the sound of birds at dawn. These things, though simple, have the power to bring joy and hope when everything else feels heavy.
Of course, hope looks different for everyone, but I love the idea that we each have our own markers, whether we realize it or not.
We need these moments, these tiny joys, to carry us through: to propel us forward when the world feels heavy. So, I invite you to take a moment today—pause, breathe, and notice the little things around you. Maybe step outside, feel the warmth of the sun, or listen to the rustling of leaves. Give yourself five minutes to simply be, without the weight of the world on your shoulders. In these small acts of mindfulness, you might find a seed of hope, a reminder that all is not lost.
And if you do, I’d love to hear what you notice. What little moments of hope do you find around you? What are the markers of springtime in your life? Because even though the markers may change, there is always promise in spring—waiting to be noticed.
With hope,
