Spring on the Horizon

Summer is right around the corner, and here in Texas it does not linger politely at the edge of the calendar the way it does in Colorado, it arrives in a rush of warm wind and bright light and heat that settles into your skin before you have folded away the last of your winter sweaters.

I am still getting used to that.

Growing up, summer felt like something you earned slowly. Winter would hold on with stubborn fingers, spring would inch in carefully, muddy and hesitant and soft around the edges, and you would wait for the green as if it were a promise being kept. Here, the green seems to appear overnight, the light stretches longer without asking permission, and the air changes before you feel entirely ready for it. I am not saying I don’t love it, I do but every year there is a small part of me that feels slightly unprepared, as if joy has arrived early and I am still standing in the doorway.

I have always claimed spring as my favorite season, but the truth is I fall in love with each one while it is here. I once heard someone say not to wish upon winter, not to rush what is present, and I understood the wisdom in that, and yet, quietly, I have always found myself longing ahead just a little. When a season lingers too long, I begin to ache for the shift. I crave the turning. I crave the evidence that nothing stays still forever.

This spring feels different.

There is a steadiness in my life that was not there before, a kind of gentle structure that feels less like rigidity and more like rhythm. There are plans unfolding quietly, conversations being had, foundations being laid in ways that feel intentional and grounded and hopeful. The boys and I can sense it, that subtle hum of a new chapter beginning, not in a dramatic way, but in the way the light changes in a room and you suddenly realize something has shifted.

And then there is the land.

I cannot wait to watch the pastures turn green again, to see that first wash of color move across the fields like someone has brushed life back into them. I cannot wait to see our mares and their babies turned out into tall grass, their backs warmed by the sun, their tails flicking lazily at flies, their bodies moving freely in that way that makes you believe, for a moment, that everything in the world is exactly as it should be.

Spring in Texas is magical, truly magical, not in a loud way, but in a way that feels electric and alive and impossible to ignore. The wildflowers spill across fields as if they have been waiting all year to show off, blues and yellows and soft whites stretching farther than you think they could, and there is an energy in the air that feels both inside of you and outside of you at the same time.

We feel it.

We find ourselves outside more and more, drawn by that warmth and that light. The boys play until their cheeks are flushed and their hair smells like sunshine. We linger on the porch long after dinner should be finished, plates pushed aside while we talk and watch the sky fade into evening. We leave the windows open and let the breeze move through the house, carrying in the scent of grass and earth and something blooming nearby. The house feels alive when the windows are open. I feel alive when the windows are open.

And the food, oh, the food.

One of my favorite parts of the seasons turning is the way our table changes with it. The heavy soups and slow braises begin to give way to fresh greens and bright salads and fruit that tastes like it has been warmed by the sun. Some of my favorite fruits begin to arrive, and I wait for them every year like old friends returning.

Strawberries will always be my first love, but peaches are a very close second.

We have peach trees on our property, and when they begin to swell and blush and soften, I go all in. I make peach pies with flaky crusts and bubbling centers, cobblers that fill the kitchen with sweet steam, slices of fruit eaten standing at the counter with juice running down our wrists. This year, I want to try making jam, something I have never done before, something that feels old-fashioned and patient and just slightly intimidating, but I am excited by the idea of it. The thought of lining up jars filled with golden peach preserves, of holding summer in my hands long after it has passed, feels deeply satisfying.

There is something about tending fruit, about turning what grows on your own land into something that will nourish your family, that feels aligned with everything I am trying to build right now, slower, steadier, more intentional.

Spring carries a new energy with it, and we feel that energy in our bones.

It feels like possibility.
It feels like growth.
It feels like space to breathe.

Summer may come quickly here, faster than I am used to, but this year I am not shrinking back from it. I am stepping toward it, toward the green pastures, the wildflowers, the porch dinners, the open windows, the peach pies cooling on the counter, and the quiet certainty that something beautiful is unfolding for us.

And for once, I do not feel unprepared.

I feel ready.