Some seasons do not announce themselves.
They take shape gradually —
in the gentler light of early mornings,
in the way familiar places begin to feel slightly altered,
in the quiet awareness that something within us has already begun to shift.
Along the coast, spring is rarely sudden.
It is first sensed in the stillness.
In the softened weight of the air.
In the subtle return of light along the shoreline where winter once lingered.
I have been noticing how change does not always arrive through grand moments.
More often, it begins in the small internal movements we almost overlook.
A thought that carries less weight than it once did.
A memory that no longer feels sharp at its edges.
A hope that returns quietly, without asking permission.
There is something sacred about these in-between spaces.
They remind us that growth is often invisible while it is taking place.
Sometimes faith looks like continuing forward without certainty.
Sometimes healing reveals itself only in hindsight —
in the quiet realization that what once ached now rests more gently.
And sometimes love, in its most tender form,
is simply the willingness to remain open to what has not yet arrived.
Spring, like the tide, does not hurry.
It returns in its own rhythm.
Perhaps we are meant to do the same.
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