The light has returned. And there’s plenty of it.

Somehow, it always surprises me, even though it happens every year. Just a moment ago, it was dark by the afternoon, and now, by seven, it’s still light. This weekend, the northern hemisphere will once again reclaim the throne of light as the ruler, after the spring equinox, giving us more daylight than anywhere else in the world.

It’s a wonderful thought. We’ve been needing more light in this world.

The yard faces west. Before diving under the river, the land slopes steeply toward the shore. The warm sun, shining brightly throughout the long day, melts the meter-thick snow from this slope first, all the way down to the ground, revealing the first signs of life beneath the trees. It feels strange to touch the bare earth and the plants underneath, free from snow for the first time in so long. Although none of them will sprout for another month or two, just seeing them reminds me that warmth is coming and that everything will soon come back to life.

After the recent upheaval in the world, it feels good to take moments to ground myself. To be present and, strangely enough, to focus on my own well-being. I believe that if I am mentally and physically well, I can be of the most help to those who are not. Nature plays a huge role in that. A tremendous one, in fact. Without it, I don’t think I could ever truly be well. I’ve experienced that while living in the city, and I doubt there’s any going back to that life.

During all my time living here, I’ve watched, read, and listened to very few news reports—of any kind. COVID had surprisingly little impact on life here, and there was no real use or enjoyment in following the constant shifts in restrictions.

It’s far more useful to track when the next full moon is coming, whether the night will be clear or very cold, and how much snow is forecasted for next week. It’s much more fun to see who visits the bird feeder in the backyard (the latest newcomers being two Siberian jays—now named Kirsi and Karri) or whose tracks wind along the snowy riverbank by morning, showing what mischief was done under the cover of darkness.

Wartime feels different and closer now. Recently, the first refugees fleeing the war arrived in our village, staying in a house that friends usually occupy part-time. The war comes up in light conversations too, like when I met my eighty-year-old neighbor on the village road. Memories surfaced of the last time their three older brothers went to the front during their childhood, and the haunting question lingered: will their sixty-year-old child have to go to war?

No one has the right answers or ways to process something bigger than any of us. We can only do our best in our own way. For me, that might mean being present in nature, breathing in the scent of thawing earth. For you, it might be something entirely different.

Still, we have more in common than we often realize. Let’s remember that.

Wishing you light and warmth in your days 💛

<3 Sanna