And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to blossom.
”Risk” by Anaïs Nin
Has anyone summed up springtime as briefly and beautifully as Anaïs Nin? The restlessness and the romance.
I’ve been feeling a stuck-ness for a while now. Two years of pandemic fatigue showing its wear, as I half-heartedly contemplated exit plans: applied to one or two jobs, browsed apartment listings in New York City (the horror) and graduate programs in Europe.
Then, when I wasn’t looking (because isn’t that the way the universe works?), an unexpected opportunity fell into my lap.
My first reaction? I wanted to freeze time and bury deeper into the comfort of my familiar days. Despite an appetite for novelty, I am ultimately a creature of habit. I cancel trips, dates, and parties — so often choosing to retreat inward rather than face the uncertainity of the unknown.
Yet so much has happened in the past month to shake me out of my cozy, winter hibernation — new, surprising beginnings, but also painful, abrupt endings. Choosing one good thing always means letting go of another, and that’s a paradox I’ve had trouble coming to terms with.
That’s the beauty of spring though, isn’t it? It always arrives right on time, shedding the past to make room for what could be. In fact, I’m writing this on March 20th: the vernal equinox. At 11:33 AM, both the North and South Poles will be equidistant from the sun, and the buds that have been dormant all season will finally begin to stir. It is “the most fertile day of the year,” according to one former coworker.
So, opportunity knocked, and I’m taking a cue from Nin and nature — taking the risk to blossom.