I don’t talk to my friends every day, but when I do oh, when I do.
It’s a returning.
A remembering.
Learning the rhythm of my own nature. When to retreat, when to lean in. Conversations stretch like vines, winding through projects, dreams, the soft pull of adventure. I had to learn what it meant to be a good friend. Listening? Yes. Being present? Yes. But also, knowing when to give space. Knowing when to let silence do its work.
Friendship is like a garden. Wildflowers bloom unannounced. Some seeds never sprout. Others push through, lean toward the sun, or find strength in the shade of another. Everything has its own pace, its own season of rest and reach. Some friends are like the heartiest crops deep rooted, full of nourishment. One, in particular, is a mind so vast we lose hours in it. We talk of earth’s crust, of history, of geometry and patterns unseen. Visiting them feels like harvesting the best from the garden.
Spring is coming, and I feel the shift in my body as much as in the soil. This is a season of movement. Of blooming. But not just the bloom the flow of it, the dance. I move with the seasons now, no longer fighting them. Even when the winds come uninvited, even when the cold overstays. Still, I remain grateful.
I have learned patience with my own becoming. In the past, I was just moving floating, untethered. Now, I feel time as something alive, something shifting with me.
The first step is to feel, you know?
To stand still long enough to notice. To tend to the garden, even in the waiting.