March

Renewal

Reflecting back on March, I find myself contemplating renewal—not as fresh starts that erase what came before, but as emergence that carries forward everything that's decomposed and transformed beneath the surface.

This year, March marked the one-year anniversary of my mother's death. The timing feels significant, almost poetic. Spring arrived on the exact day I lost her, as if nature wanted to teach me something about how endings and beginnings live together. I felt sadness, of course, sharp and present. But I've learned that this sadness is not something to move past or overcome. It's what keeps her close and alive in me. The grief doesn't contradict the renewal; it feeds it.

Jung taught us that nothing is truly lost in the psyche. What appears to die—relationships, identities, versions of ourselves—doesn't vanish. It transforms into psychological compost, enriching the soil from which new growth emerges. Our losses, our failures, our endings literally become the nourishment for what comes next. But this transformation requires something of us: we have to let ourselves feel the loss fully. We can't bypass mourning and expect genuine rebirth. The psyche demands completion of grief cycles before new life can take root.

I've been watching this principle play out around me. The perennials are beginning to poke through the earth after months of apparent dormancy. They look like new growth, but they're not new—they're returns, fed by everything that decomposed over winter. The leaves that fell, the stems that died back, the organic matter that broke down—all of it became the nourishment these plants needed to emerge again. Nothing was wasted. Everything that looked like an ending was actually preparation.

This is what renewal looks like when we understand it psychologically. We don't start fresh by forgetting or transcending our losses. We grow from them. We carry them forward as the richest soil we have. My mother's death hasn't disappeared into the past. It lives in me, shapes me, feeds the person I'm becoming. The sadness I feel is evidence that she matters, that our relationship continues to grow and transform even after her physical presence ended.

Spring keeps teaching me that renewal isn't about leaving things behind. It's about discovering what we're carrying forward and how it nourishes what's trying to emerge.

Nature’s Whispers Oracle Card Reading

Instead of a women's group update this month, I'm sharing a reading from the Nature's Whispers Oracle deck. Oracle cards are an ancient tool for connecting with the messages of the Universe, offering guidance and reflection.

As the deck's creators remind us: "Nature is continually enticing us to spend time in her embrace, through the calling of birds, the babbling of brooks and streams, the fragrant smell of the flowers and the whispers of the trees as the wind blows through their branches."

The card I pulled randomly this month: Breakthrough

"Feel confident that things are falling into place. Just as a seedling breaking through the surface of the earth, you too are going to experience an emergence. The efforts of your hard work will become evident and you will begin to see the difference all of that labor and time you have invested has made. Count your blessings! You are gifted with a creative touch and the ability to generate new and wonderful things. Take a moment to feel proud of yourself for all that you have accomplished." What a beautiful synchronicity!

Brief Updates

I'm reimagining the women's group format—potentially shifting to quarterly sessions or exploring other structures that better serve this community. If you've participated or been interested, I'd welcome your input on what kind of gathering would be most valuable to you. Details will follow once I've gathered feedback and determined the path forward. In the meantime, individual coaching sessions are available.

Closing Reflection

The perennials in my garden don't question whether they're allowed to return. They don't worry that last year's version was better or that they should have stayed dormant longer. They simply push through when they're ready, trusting that everything that died back has prepared the way.

What in your life is trying to emerge this spring? What loss or ending might actually be the richest soil you have for new growth? How might your grief—rather than being something to transcend—be what keeps what matters most alive and close?

“Look deep into nature and then you will understand everything better." — Albert Einstein