Spring is rolling in. The plants I bought last Summer and mourned in Autumn are showing their first green. Tiny leaves of morrocan mint, a hopeful little kitchen bay, some lavender ready for the brush of bees against it’s new blooms. As the days have rolled into each other recently, I’ve been getting that urge I feel every year to re-read The Secret Garden. Frances Hodgson Burnett’s beautiful classic was the first book that made me cry. It’s a staple in my life. And every year, it opens my eyes again to the wild heart beating even in dusty cities. It prepares me for Spring. My name means green shoot, or fresh spring blossom in more romantic interpretations. So every Spring I feel closer to myself. I have been learning to embrace every season, but Spring is the season that embraces me.