I'm looking out the window, the same window I've faced for the last year of the pandemic. The same window I've faced for years prior to that, as someone who's worked remotely for well over a decade. There's a tree outside the window that marks the seasons in its own beautiful way.
As usual in February, the branches are bare, but the buds are appearing. I have written about this tree before; I will continue to write about this tree. Seasons are cyclical but I have learned they are never the same.
What does remain true: I notice that the tree never holds onto its leaves in winter, or its flowers in spring. Everything has its purpose, and when that purpose is complete, the tree gracefully releases the leaves and flowers. What a show it is as spring continues and the tiny pink flowers shower down on our heads, flutter into the road as if they're infinite. But there comes a time when the last pink petal falls for the year. And the tree, a year older, again begins to focus on winter rest and survival.
This gives me profound hope as I enter a new season in my own life. After over a decade at MomsRising, the time has come for me to transition into a new role, organization, field, and environment with Airbnb.org. I look at the tree outside; it's marshaling so many resources to begin again, growing new buds on old branches that are anchored to a trunk that's stayed steady for more years than I know.