Gathering Momentum
Tender shoots of Spring
Green shoots, new, tender, wave in the cold breeze, and I’m out again, walking. Some movement. Some forward motion. Some momentum. Something stirring to greet the day. Magnolias grow up, pink to white from root to tip against the new sky, the clear day — cherry blossoms, too, against the blue.
Tender shoots, new, green, wave and greet us in the warming breeze. They are lighter, green. Soon, they’ll stretch wide, unfolding, opening like arms wide, and make shade in their full expression. For now, they’re still in process.
In the season of arrival, I am curious about slowness. About straddling the season, seeking the intention to slow down. Already I can feel it: the energy of bursting forward, an urge to go fast into the future, embrace the quick spring: plan for things, plant the seeds, so many things to do.
But what wonders do we miss, like Mary Oliver writes, if we’re all in a hurry? What’s now, in our eyes, ears, hearts, minds, psyches, arms, throats, noses? What lives through us in the present tense? Learning is what I’m returning to, curious about what unfolds in stillness and slowness, about the details, about the season and how it emerges. How we uncurl from the containment of the quiet dark in ways that open to a strong bloom. How the fig trees cut back in winter start to ready fruit in the growing heat. How the cherry tree radiates out, blooms enthralling us and eventually turning the sidewalks pink. How the trees endured, the shorelines held the waves, how the water spoke to the shorelines consistently. How in the soil seeds expand outward, and root down. How we come out from our homes in the sunlight and it ripples through our cells, minds lit up with sun, blissed like a psychedelic. I want to unfold this moment slowly, like warming the spine of a new book page by page, where too fast, too hard, too soon, too much force cracks the glue, the spine cracks.
In the doorway of this season, next to new shoots, green tender leaves, everything gathering is momentum. I am thinking of noticing, learning from the intricacies of the season, breathing in deeply, and slow. I have two eyes on the springtime, a body in this present moment, and both feet straddling the season’s horizons. Here we are, this vernal arrival, balancing on this equal day. One foot in winter, a yield to the beauty of the slow dark; the other, pointed to the horizon, gathering with it speed, taking with it information and momentum, seeds unfurling in the soil. With anything we’re growing, tending, or creating, can we give ourselves a slow awakening? What are you emerging into or from? What do you bring from the dormant winter with you into our unfolding of the season ahead? At the edges of Spring, what are we learning?
nourished by, nourishing:
Here’s a playlist for winding down — one I turn to at night — and one with more energy for the season ahead. Reading poems — this from Mary Oliver — and studies on the relationship between music, taste, and food (fascinating). This week I’m inspired by, and gladly stuck on the landscape, soundtrack, and costuming details (the details!!) in Dune 2. Nourished by the sunlight, evening walks to the halal cart. This is what we made in class this week.
Paid subscribers, your next Seasonal Session for spring is headed your way.
from a past season:
classes and upcoming experiences:
Join in for creative practices with me in NYC and beyond:
3/26 Ink/Play
3/26 Grounded in Gratitude: Meditation and Journaling
4/2 Creative Landscape: a four week journaling series [online]
4/4 Bookbinding: Coptic Stitch
4/4 Suminagashi Basics
4/14 Bookbinding: French Link Stitch
4/21 Earth Day Journaling
Creative Nourishment is a reader-supported publication by Kelly Odette Laughlin. I’m an artist, writer, and teacher located in NYC, and the founder of Odette Press, a studio dedicated to handmade journals. I lead creative workshops for spaces and teams throughout the city and beyond. Learn more about my work here, shop journals here, and listen on Spotify. Thank you for being here.