We have just crested the second half of February and it is 80 degrees in North Carolina. My body cannot decide if it is grateful for the sun stretching its warm fingers to my winter-chilled cells (it is!) or if it is grief-stricken about trees blooming and short sleeves making their appearance outside of the earth’s natural rhythms.

My earth-rooted partner had the divine idea of setting up a camping bed in the backyard for an afternoon nap today (reason #537 of why I f**k with them). Laying underneath the vast open sky yet so close to the earth is incredibly grounding—my breath slows and my pupils dilate and even my uterus seems to quell its monthly tap dance for a little while. I can smell the melting soil for the first time in months—a bit musty and wet— and I remember that the earth has its own sovereignty and I am merely a visitor here for a little while.

Climate grief is so real. We are allowed to feel afraid, worried when temperatures rise before their time or beyond their usual limits. And also…I am reminded as a lay under this blossoming tree as a hundred tiny bees work to pollinate the first nectar of the season…the earth will survive. She is a master of change and evolution and always finds a way to release that which cannot endure and open herself to new ways of being.

I choose to spend my days immersed her wisdom. I can expand and contract and learn the lessons meant for me. And right now…the lesson is…it’s not spring yet, boo, go lay your ass down.

Winter will hold me tenderly in its hibernation and conservation for just a few weeks longer as I allow what birthing will come, to emerge in its own timing. Will you join me?