Nothing happens all at once, not even spring

April 11, 2026
Owl Feather Farm, San Juan Island

Spring arrives all at once.

Or so it seems.

We look out the living room window and rufous hummingbirds have suddenly appeared at the end of their annual migration from California. They are joined by a flock of violet-green swallows doing cartwheels over the horse paddock, starting their annual spring mosquito knock-down and rebuilding their nests in the eaves on the garage. A California-winter turkey vulture soars high above False Bay, scanning for lunch. The first summer robin is singing up a storm in the pines.

Both these pear trees and this camellia set their blossom buds last fall—waiting patiently for spring

None of these were here just yesterday. It’s like they all signed up for the same northbound tour bus and spilled out on our island at the end of the run.

Same thing in the orchard. One day a close look—even in the brightest sun and mildest breeze—just shows beige blossom buds wrapped tight at the tips of twigs. Next day, the pear and plum trees have burst into full bloom. One day, columbine flower stems are just starting to rise thick and straight from the base of the plant. Next day, lovely graceful flower slippers are showing their gold and copper petals as they get ready to spread wide.

For months the meadow grass is in its winter stubs, barely 2 inches. Then you look out and it’s 2 feet high and you wonder if the battery in the big mower will crank enough to start ‘er up because you better get out there right away.

The sun slumps low over the southeast horizon and it’s dark at 6pm. Then before you know it the sun is high above your forehead and it’s light in the northwest sky at 8:30.

Spring seems sudden but it’s not. The human condition is to notice outcomes rather than progress… no matter how much we practice that venerable journey-not-the-destination mantra. So while we marvel at the immediacy of spring, it’s an occasion to reflect on the long-term foundation when we are dazzled by a brilliant day and its showpieces. Had we looked carefully, the flower buds started to appear in early February and swelled slowly for two months. The hummingbirds were far south in the Sierra foothills then, and the swallows had made it halfway from South America to Baja. The first columbine leaves started to unfurl at ground level around Presidents Day.

Think how much this is like all of life—it’s a massive metaphor for what we practice here at Owl Feather Healing. No one session of Pilates straightens out crooked backs on the spot. No single hour of a crystal bowl sound bath sends depression and anxiety off to Venus. And blossom-blanketed fruit trees represent the winter manure brought to their feet in December, one wheelbarrow at a time.

We live in times when millions of people seek and expect instant gratification. They go to college and measure the value of the experience by first-month money in the job market—as if spending four years or more just widening your horizons was not priceless. They’re going to avoid their grandparents’ ills by taking pills. Millions more slouch on couches sure they will write the next billion-dollar video game, or 10M-view TikTok, and buy their own private island next year. In real life that happens about as often as a solid-gold meteorite lands in your back yard; those who do reach those lofty heights spend years getting there.

At Owl Feather Farm we measure value by what we find in and around our home every day—and by what went into it every day before. This season is a vivid and lovely reminder that nothing is instant, not even the glories of spring.

—Eric Lucas

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