Cherry Blossoms
Everywhere I look lately, offline or on, I see cherry blossoms. They’re the universal sign of Spring. Blooms in general, I suppose, but something about the cherry blossom carries with it an inherent hope. They signal the start of a new season, peeling off the dark cape of winter to let new light in, blooming in a celebratory gratitude. They’re a reminder that new is always coming, renewal is always waiting.
This season we’ve gone through together as a people, and I mean that quite literally, as all of humanity has dealt with the pandemic and its life altering effects, is nothing short of pivotal for all of us. Last year I was lucky enough to spend a large portion of my summer on the East Coast with my family, spending treasured time with the kids, my parents, and the place I grew up—my roots. When I got back to San Francisco, however, it was like the whole world had shifted. More than a handful of friends had either already left, or were planning on leaving soon. The pandemic had truncated timelines and made them think critically about their futures, which had once felt far away, now presented themselves as options for tomorrow. I grieved, probably for a good two weeks, the world I lived in before. Not a “pre-covid” world, per-say, but the season of life with the specific community I had around me. Those days, those rendezvous at coffee shops and artisan cocktail bars and rooftops views with my crew were in an instant, a memory. I think this is a relatable reality for a lot of us.
The pandemic affected all of us diplomatically, but also uniquely. For some of us, it made us see clearly the future we wanted: a partner, a baby, a new city, a new career in a new country, and with the noise removed, we were able to make decisions with clarity. I’ve actually written an entire post on what removing the noise in our lives does for our mental and emotional states, but it’s never been quite finessed…I guess more to come. ;) For me personally, removing the noise allowed me to, in many ways, come back to myself—to the things I love, the things I want to create, and what kind of voice I have to use in the world. But with that, also somehow came a feeling of isolation. Some artists create best on an island, and don’t need artists around them to fuel the fire. I am not one of those. I am without a doubt, and introvert through and through, but minds and hearts of artists are a kind of people and community I need and yearn for. They add fuel to my fire.
Recently I was talking with a friend about this, and she asked me if I saw San Francisco being able to foster that kind of support and community for me, and for the first time, I said out loud, “I don’t know.” The truth hurts. I love this place and don’t plan on leaving, but also, the reality of where I see my career or community going, and what this city has to offer, may be really different. So, with all of the good and clarity and inspiration that has come from this bizarre season of life, it is also inextricably tied to grief. I think that is so key to renewal, though. In farming or forestation, sometimes low intensity fires can be used to bring renewal to the soil. It can remove underbrush, clean debris and open the ground floor up to sunlight, ultimately nourishing the soil.
I find this to be such a key illustration of renewal—It has to break down first to be reborn. It goes through a refining process. It hopes, and it hurts. As we find ourselves in a new beginning of sorts, we must remind ourselves that it is okay to hope and hurt at the same time. It’s okay to be sad and to be joyful. It’s okay to feel excited about opening up, while simultaneously finding yourself anxious about being around the masses. Remind yourself that renewal is not linear, it’s not one size fits all, and it’s not always an easy transition into the new. Grace is key, always. So in this Spring season, when you see cherry blossoms abound, remind yourself that renewal is a process, but it will always lead to something beautiful.