Lately: April 5, 2026
Personal Updates & Letters to Readers
Well hello!
This is the first installment of a new post series: occasional personal updates in the form of letters to you. I’ll be titling and filing them under the tag of “Lately,” and they’ll cover everything from what’s happening in nature outside the window, to updates on my longer term writing projects, to what’s going on in my life at the moment. Expect less polish, more personal, and more meandering. Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy!
Hello friends,
I hope you are all well and enjoying the season, wherever this finds you!
It’s a very early spring this year on the mountain, and unseasonably warm weather after a less than normal snowpack over winter gives the impression that time is flowing out of order, up here. There’s a restless, almost conflicted energy right now. Like hitting the gas and the brake at the same time. Half of nature doesn’t seem to want to commit to the warm months, and the other half is barreling ahead, anyway.
Right now, the snow is all but melted. This is not typical — 3 years ago we still had 5-10 feet on the ground at this time. The mornings are mild enough to wear just one jacket while feeding the birds, and the sun has that warming feel on the face that reminds you of June.
But nothing is growing yet. The aspens still seem to be sleeping and the wildflowers aren’t even sprouting, let alone blooming. If it stays this dry, we may not have much in the way of wildflowers at all this year. I hope for more snow, and getting another good storm or two that provide a couple more feet is not out of the question. That potential is all that’s keeping me from planting my porch containers with this year’s flowers and kitchen herbs.
For the astrologically-inclined, this is an extra-firey Aires season. The sun will spend most of April here. It’s a sign of igniting action, fueling the seeds planted and the activities yet to come with the spark of new life. An energetic shot in the arm, for those that choose to lean in.
For me, it’s been like a rude alarm clock these past few weeks after I feel like I’ve just settled in to the pace of introspective, restful winter.
There’s a bottled-up energy, a restlessness that can’t seem to find an outlet. I’m experiencing it as a push-pull between longing for the true arrival of the warm months and all of the adventures, the blissful forgetting about snow until fall, and a background opposing force: something that says “not yet.”
Outside, the animals are taking advantage of the weather and energy — I watch them jealously.
The migrating birds arrived early. Juncos now join my chickadees for breakfast. Our resident mountain bluebirds are already building their nest in an old wood-stove chimney on our shop/garage. Northern Flickers, doves, and robins have added to the morning birdsong in the woods around the house. Snowshoe hares are starting to shift from winter white fur to summer brown, and even the marmots have emerged from their burrows. Everyone is easily a full month ahead of schedule.
Against this backdrop, I’m over here trying to write poetry… or rather, doing my best to manage through this strange transition of seasons. This is our fourth April since moving here, and the emotional, mental, and physical buildup of energy that seems to have no outlet has become a dependable hallmark of the month. Think abrasive, frustrated anticipation. Cabin fever. The writer’s block is real at the moment, too, and maddening when the rest of the energy around you wants to move.
If there’s one thing that past Aprils have taught me up here, is that patience is a form of discipline. Endurance is the capacity to continue over the long term, and fortitude is the choice to keep going when it gets hard. It’s the inner attitude that must be adopted if you’re not going to roll over and give up on your goals.
Last year, I set some writing goals and timelines for this year, and this month is not going to plan. Imagine it, putting poetry on deadline! Usually I am still house-bound with too much snow outside to do anything but use a treadmill. This year, I’m at least able to go for long walks outside (even if flavored with concern about high fire danger this summer).
So for now, unlike prior years, my endurance challenge is in the form of discipline, of commitment to my creative practice. I’m resisting the urge to throw up my hands and break this routine entirely, or to impulsively turn all my energy loose on something that isn’t actually aligned with the direction I want to go.
Staying committed to the action of showing up to write, in case words do arrive (happily, this update came about as part of that), is my current lesson in patience. A lesson in letting this odd flow of time not to sweep me too far forward and lost in daydreaming, and to try and stay present with the discomfort of this period that feels both too-fast and too-slow.
Through all this, I do wonder who else out there is experiencing the same tension, at the moment.
I know it will get better, which helps. One of these days, I know I’ll spot the first flower, and it will be just as surprisingly delightful as every first flower of years prior — the same way new poems often arrive for me. A bit surprising, unexpected, and of course, eagerly greeted.
As I sign off, I do hope that whatever you find yourself working on or toward in your corner of the world, you’re able to take some time to enjoy the seasonal shift in the way that you love the most.
Take care,
Aaryn