What Will Be Given Life

Mar 27

Last week was the celebration of Spring Equinox. The Equinox brings a subtle but powerful shift. Balance arrives—not as a fixed state, but as a moment of meeting. Light and dark stand in equal measure, neither dominating, neither receding.

A pause in the turning.

From this place, a quiet question emerges:

What will be given life now?

Not every longing carried through winter is meant to be planted in the same season. Some are still forming. Some belong to another cycle. Some arrived as messengers, not instructions.

Discernment becomes a form of care.

In early spring, the field is open. Possibility can feel expansive, even intoxicating. Energy begins to rise. Ideas return. Desire stirs with new clarity. And yet—this is precisely the moment where restraint becomes sacred.

A field planted with everything becomes overwhelmed. Roots compete. Nutrients thin. Growth weakens under the weight of too much intention. Nature does not rush to fill every available space. Nature chooses. To choose is not to reject longing. To choose is to honour capacity.

Each seed requires relationship. Attention. Protection in early stages. A willingness to stay through uncertainty. A willingness to tend even when visible growth has not yet arrived.

To scatter energy widely is to dilute devotion.
To choose is to deepen it.

The Equinox offers a threshold not only of balance, but of direction.

Where will energy be placed?
What will be nurtured with consistency?
What is worthy of time, not just desire?

There is also a quieter layer to this choosing. Some longings ask for expression. Others ask for integration. Others still ask to be witnessed without being acted upon. Not every inner movement requires outward form. Discernment is not urgency. Discernment is listening shaped by honesty.

What brings a sense of grounded aliveness when imagined over time—not just in the initial spark? What feels steady enough to return to, again and again? What carries a quality of truth, even when excitement fades?

Spring does not ask for everything to grow. Spring asks for right relationship with what grows. The field does not need to be full. The field needs to be tended. And tending begins with choosing.

A Discernment Wander for the Spring Threshold

This wander is not about deciding quickly. This wander is about noticing what holds depth, what asks for devotion, and what may not belong to this season.

Bring 1–3 longings into awareness before beginning. No more than three.

Stepping In

Bring your intention to discern what will be given life. Begin walking slowly.

Feel the contact between body and ground. Let the pace be unhurried, even slightly slower than natural. With each step, allow attention to drop from thinking into sensing.

You might quietly name:

Here.
This ground.
This body.
This moment.

Let your nervous system settle. Take time with each longing. Bring each one gently into awareness. Not as a story— but as a felt presence.

Walk with this question:

How does this longing live in the body?

Notice:

Where sensation gathers
Whether the body leans toward or away
If there is expansion, contraction, steadiness, or urgency

After a few minutes, ask:

Does this longing feel rooted or reactive?
No need to answer in words. Let the body respond. Take your time.

Listening for What Wants to Stay

Now allow all longings to be present together, like seeds held in open hands.

Walk with this question:

Which of these stays with me?

Not the loudest.
Not the most exciting.
Not the one that gathers the most energy quickly.
But the one that remains.
The one that does not need to prove itself.
The one that feels quietly, steadily true.

If helpful, gently ask of each:

Do you deepen over time, or do you fade?
Are you asking something of my life—or just my attention?

Notice which longing continues to return, without force. Notice which one feels settled in the body—

not heavy, but rooted. Something that can be stood in, rather than carried.

Meeting Devotion

Bring your attention to the longing that feels most true.

Now shift the question:

What would it mean to tend this?

Not complete.
Not achieve.
Not perfect.
Tend.

As you walk, listen for what arises:

A rhythm
A boundary
A form of protection
A small, repeatable act

Then ask:

What will this require me to say no to? Let this be honest. Every chosen seed reshapes the field.

The Act of Choosing

If it feels right, pause walking. Stand still. Feel the ground beneath your feet.

Gently name (silently or aloud):

This is what I will give life to.

No force.
No contract.
Just a clear, present-moment orientation. If uncertainty remains, that is also welcome.

You might instead name:

This is what I will stay in relationship with.

Noticing What is and Offering Gratitude

Before returning, take one final breath with awareness.
Notice the world around you again— light, air, sound.

Nothing dramatic needs to have happened. Discernment is often quiet. Choosing is often subtle. And yet, something has shifted:

Attention has gathered.
Energy has begun to orient.
A relationship has been named.
Carry that gently forward.

Offer Gratitude for the being held by the earth as you discerned.

Reflecting

You may wish to journal:

What felt steady rather than urgent?
What surprised me?
What feels different now about how I move forward?

Michele Walker