The initial onset of spring, although much anticipated, is always quite a thrill. Winter’s light is distinct and can be beautiful, but it’s invariably short-lived and austere. It never quite lets you settle into it. With its ever-lengthening days (turbocharged by the transition to daylight saving time), spring feels inherently more luminous and generous.
As the diurnal cycle stretches open, daylight softens and lingers. With any kind of abundant rainy season, the landscape in Sonoma suddenly seems painted green (a process that began stealthily during winter’s grey shroud). Not just any green, but one that feels hypnotically charged. To farmers, it carries with it a renewed sense of possibility.
There’s a manifest expression of energy rising from the soil. Cycling along with this explosion of green are the brooding patterns of many neighborhood critter friends. The early growth of all plants is particularly proteinaceous (extra nutritious for newborns and lactating females), hence the traffic on the farm amps up considerably. Chortling turkeys abound, and Bambi’s cousins are out in force. Increasingly, massive flocks of geese in chevron formation roar overhead as they hit the flip side of their annual path. Everything is waking up.
At the estate, spring marks a shift. The farm begins to stretch too—pushing out its first vegetables, coaxing citrus from its branches, and inviting us back into a rhythm that’s slower, more deliberate. Meals begin to taste brighter, more alive. Salads made from the garden return to the table. The sun comes back into our routines, and with it, a kind of gentler pace. After the hush of winter, spring offers a fresh tempo, and a reminder that renewal is not only possible—it’s built into the very fabric of the seasons.
