To the One Who’s Ready to Create Something New This Spring

Dear beautiful human,

This is your invitation.

To pick up the shovel and press it into the warm soil of your life.

To feel the earth push back, to feel the resistance, to know this is where the work begins—not in the dream, but in the digging.

You want something new.

And you keep looking out there, wondering who will build it with you, for you, alongside you. But the truth is: it is you who must plant what you want to grow. It is you who must fortify the soil, clear away the rot, and get your hands dirty in the life that is yours to cultivate.

No one is coming to save your garden. No one else knows the flavor of the harvest you’re aching for.

So dig.

Compost the pain. Let what has died nourish what is next. Not everything was meant to stay. Some things were only meant to decompose and make the next season possible. Stop trying to resurrect what is rotting. Clear it. Mourn it. Feed your future with it.

This is not just about “letting go”—this is about rooting in.

Root into your body. Root into your desires. Root into the integrity of your choices. Not from scarcity. Not from fear. But from that wild, untamed knowing that you were born to be both the seed and the soil. The gardener and the harvest.

The one who gets to choose what grows here.

This is not the time to plant someone else’s dream. This is not the time to seek surface-level blossoms for show. This is the season of tending—to what is real, to what is ready, to what is ripe with truth. Ask yourself:

Is this rooted? Or is this performative?

Am I feeding it from a place of genuine nourishment?

Or trying to control it from a place of fear?

We don’t get to bloom unless we do the deadheading. We don’t get the feast unless we show up in the field with dirt under our fingernails.

And we sure as hell don’t get to experience the kind of sensual, spiritual, holy aliveness we crave in this life if we keep outsourcing our creation to people who were never meant to carry it.

You are the ecosystem. The feast. The climate.

You are the one you’ve been trying to co-create with.

Stop waiting. Start tending. Like you mean it.

This Taurus season doesn’t ask you to wish.

It asks you to root so deeply into your desires that your whole body pulses with remembering.

To slow down enough to feel your own hunger.

To let the ache guide you—not as something to fix, but as a sacred signal of what’s ready to rise. To stop sedating the yearning and start stoking it.

To feed it. To trust it.

To feel the burn behind your breastbone and the throb within your body and make a life from that place.

Because what you want is not just to be grounded. You want to be alive. You want to bloom from your bones.

You want to wake up to yourself, moaning with meaning.

And you can.

Taurus season doesn’t want surface. Taurus wants depth.

It wants sweat, soil, slow hands, and unapologetic pleasure. It wants devotion—not distraction. To create a life that can sip the intensity of your desire—

not pacify it.

This is your season to dig deep and plant only what you long to harvest.

Let every choice you make be a love letter to the oldest, wisest part of you. Your future self.

Make your ancestors proud.

Do not settle for half-hearted anything.

Do not chase what will not stay.

Do not ignore the whisper that says,

It’s time to start again.

Because it is.

And you can.

So pick up the shovel, love.

There’s work to be done.

And something beautiful is aching to grow.

Time to get your hands dirty,

Practice Postscript

The Reflection:

• Be real. Where in your life are you tending out of fear instead of love?

• Be honest. What needs to be composted so that something new can grow?

• Listen closely. Where do you feel the pulse of creation most in your body right now?

The Everyday Practice:

• Find a quiet space outside and sit with your bare feet on the ground.

• Place one hand on your chest and the other over your belly—or wherever the throb lives today.

• Speak quietly aloud: “I am the root, the soil, and the sower. I am allowed to start again.”

• Feel it. Don’t rush it. Let this be your sacred tending.

• Return to this simple practice when things get cloudy or the mind gets loud.

Living in the Question:

What would shift if I trusted that I am both the gardener and the garden?