Once upon a time, I didn’t really care much for getting regular exercise. Up until my mother fell and started her decline in January, I had been fighting for being able to meet my walking goals each day; between cold and bad weather, it was a struggle. Missing it for roughly six weeks, though, was a stark reminder that walking is more than exercise for me.

It’s my selfish, self-care time. It’s my time to think, lose myself in Spanish lessons, and work out physical stress. I usually walk my neighborhood, which is a perfect area for such things; on any given day, I can see the Japanese Magnolia tree blooming in a neighbor’s yard, walk by the county museum grounds and see their small village, stop by the donkeys and scritch their noses (and avoid their teeth). The cows appreciate a friendly pat on the nose, too; I hear they like fig newtons.

In the other direction, I can visit my favorite oak tree, which I did just yesterday. It’s a bit early yet for it to bloom and leaf out, but it’s magnificent even when dormant. It’s one of my seasonal goalposts, and a reminder that while the new things among us (like this year’s blooming daffodils) are beautiful in the moment, anything worth building takes time. I have no idea how old that tree is, but I know my own life is a mere fraction of it. The immensity of that tree is the result of many seasons of growth, and it has survived countless storms, high winds, cold temperatures, droughts.

My moods are closely tied to the seasons, and Spring is my favorite; a time for renewal, new growth, a world that’s being colored in daily like a giant coloring book. While it also brings the challenges of bad weather and pollen, I see this time of year as a revival, both in nature and in myself. There’s a hopefulness I can’t quite describe when taking in the beauty of blooming daffodils, the nearly hourly differences in the blooms on Bradford Pear trees, not to mention, gardening plans and my own plants I’ve overwintered get the chance to move outside for sunshine and fresh air.

But like that oak tree, my own journey is the result of many seasons. I’ve endured the high winds and storms in order to bloom, again. I’m learning how to live and adapt without someone who was extremely important to me. The tree has lost branches over time, the scars of where it has healed are evident in the trunk — but the loss doesn’t diminish the tree. It keeps going, and so do I.

This journey has never been one solitary path; it’s been a constant rekindling and growth of spirit. When I walk, when I see the changes around me this time of year, I automatically think of the future — of the good things I want for myself, for my family and friends. Of how far I have come to this point, and what I can choose for myself as I move forward. I’ve lost a few branches in my time, but I’ve gained so much more from those experiences than I have ever lost. So as I tend this year’s garden, I’ll be healing and growing right along with it.

Continuing to push hard toward my goals is part of the legacy and the promise I have made to those I love, even if I haven’t given it words; I know well that I could have been the one to leave others with grief, and that by my choices, I have endured and continue my own springtime. It’s not the storms I look for; it’s the blue skies.