There’s something so still about the first real days of spring.

Not the calendar date—the actual feeling of it. The one that shows up unannounced, subtle and slow, like it doesn’t want to wake you too suddenly. You step outside, and it’s not quite warm, not quite cold. The air has that early crispness, but the sun is trying. You can feel it on your face—soft, not yet sharp. More a promise than a presence.

I passed by this tree on my walk today. It’s one I’ve walked by a hundred times, probably more, but something about it stopped me. Maybe it was the way the orange berries looked so bright against the deep green leaves, lit up by that clean spring light. There’s this kind of glow nature gets when it’s just starting to remember color again. It’s like watching a painting dry slowly, layer by layer.

This time of year has a way of quieting everything down. There’s no pressure to do anything grand. It’s not about chasing sunlight or making the most of long days—not yet. It’s about noticing. Small shifts. The kind you only catch if you’re paying attention.

To me, this is what “home” feels like. Not a house or a place, but a moment. A small pocket of stillness. A deep breath in the middle of everything else. Maybe it’s a certain kind of light, or the way the breeze moves through the trees. Maybe it’s music playing from a window down the street or the familiar texture of a favorite sweater. It’s not loud, but it stays with you.

And spring, in its early stages, is full of those moments. They’re soft and easy to miss—but they’re there. You just have to let yourself slow down enough to catch them.

So here’s to the gentle return. The cool mornings and golden afternoons. The warm-toned details and the calm they bring. The feeling of stepping outside and recognizing, in some small, steady way, that the world is turning again—and it’s okay to just be in it.

— Max