In this in-between time, many of us find ourselves, as Octavia Raheem tells us, in the pause between “what is ‘no longer’ and what is ‘not yet.’” How do we summon the courage to stay in the pause? How do we meet ourselves with kindness in the midst of paradox?

We know that trees send messages underground to each other, that they pump nutrients to young sprouts, that they are in constant communication. But they also engage in a funny kind of dance called, of all things, crown shyness. Crown, or in Latin, as fate would have it, corona.

A friend furrows her brow. "I made it through winter," she says. "I did so well this year. But suddenly, I feel like I'm totally falling apart. Like, isn't spring supposed to be flowery? Shouldn't this be the easy part?" We laugh at this, that anything might be the easy part.

The garden brings me to the truth of growth and becoming in its haphazard, uneven beauty. If I want to enjoy it, there's just no room for perfectionism.

When a child's simple question leads beneath jargon to a different way of understanding how we heal. (And really, "Biodynamic Craniosacral Therapy" is such a mouthful! Here's a clearer way in).

“We are here to remind each other of who we already are." When the kids' raucous band practice leads back to a fundamental truth on the difference between care taking and taking care.

A million internet tests will tell you if you are extroverted or introverted, but for me the designation is fluid and comes back to this: What nourishes you most of all, at this very moment?