As spring arrives here in Western Massachusetts, I feel the warmth of March’s sun on my face—and a chill at my back.

Not the ghost of winter, but the shiver I feel every time I read or listen to the news.

In the U.S., we are facing rising censorship and silencing. More than ever, we need to remember how to learn in ways that strengthen both our resilience—and our resistance.

In times like these, I return to my practice of Core-Respondence—a way of learning from the world around us that supports both.

Core-Respondence is a practice I developed to help us attune to the wisdom of place, body, and spirit—especially in unsettling times.

Over the coming weeks, I’ll share more about this practice.

Today, I begin with what the crocus teaches.

A Memory of Crocus Joy

One of my earliest memories is of late winter mornings when my mother would urge me to come outside to see the first crocuses poking their heads through the snow along the foundation of the house.

She could barely contain her own joy, and I felt it too, as I knelt down in my snowpants to take a closer look at the purple flowers with their bright saffron-colored stamens.

These were the harbingers of spring.

What can we learn from the crocus in these times?

We may feel as small as a crocus in the face of seemingly insurmountable threats.

But remember—crocuses propagate on their own.

They are activated by the cold, just as we, too, can be stirred into awareness and action by the chilling conditions around us.

We can rise from the ground—together.

And even when we do not appear present, we are still here, underground, our corms (crocuses have corms, not bulbs) quietly storing the resources we need.

Be Like the Crocus

Sometimes we need to be like the crocus.

To remind ourselves that we come back.

We return.

We’re growing in many lands of our beloved Living Earth—like the crocus.

A Season for Strengthening

If you’re underground, storing your resources—that’s okay.

I’ve been doing the same.

A friend, a longtime activist, recently shared:

I’ve been so quiet. The world has been cruel and ignorantly loud. I’ve fought for weeks to find my anchor. I know what that means for me—feet planted to the ground… I don’t know what the answers are, but I’m strengthening myself for la lucha.

We all have seasons.

And like the crocus, we can come back—pushing through the cold soil when the time is right.

🌱 What might your corm be storing right now?
🌿 What are you preparing to bring into the light?

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