Among the Blossoms: A Season of Soft Change

In London, spring doesn't arrive all at once. It begins in the small things: lighter mornings, a subtle shift in the air, the first pink blush of cherry blossoms lining a quiet street. After months of grey skies and damp cold, these changes can feel like a quiet kind of magic. They signal life returning after winter's pause. And in those early weeks of spring, something in us begins to wake up too.

Spring is often thought of as a season of renewal, but it’s also a time when things surface — feelings we didn’t realise we were carrying, memories that catch us by surprise. As the world outside starts to move and grow, our inner world does too. There can be lightness, and there can be unease. Both are natural.

The cherry blossom, or sakura in Japanese, is perhaps the most iconic symbol of this shift. These trees bloom so brightly — soft pinks and whites that seem to glow — but they only last for a short time. Then the petals fall like snow. In Japanese culture, cherry blossoms symbolise beauty, but also impermanence. They remind us that nothing lasts.

This isn’t a bleak message, but a grounding one. The Japanese concept of mono no aware refers to a gentle and bittersweet awareness that everything is transient. It’s the soft ache we feel when we know something lovely won’t last. This awareness doesn’t take away from joy but deepens it. It’s part of being alive. It helps us appreciate what we have, while we have it.

In Chinese Taoist philosophy, there is a similar wisdom. Taoism teaches us about balance and flow. It reminds us that life moves in cycles, and we don’t need to force things. We can follow the seasons, just like nature does. The cherry blossom doesn’t try to bloom early — it waits. When the time and temperature are right, it opens. Then it lets go.

Therapeutically, these seasonal shifts can offer helpful metaphors. Change often begins quietly. A season can seem long and still, but underneath, transformation is happening. Life rarely moves in straight lines. Growth can take time. And often, the process looks like letting go. Not everything needs to be rushed or fixed.

We may wish to hold onto what feels good, and we may be afraid of it slipping away, but when we accept that everything changes — the good, the hard, all of it — we can learn to let things be. Beauty becomes more precious because we know it won’t stay forever. And pain becomes more bearable because we know it won’t stay either.

The falling blossoms can also teach us about letting go. Letting go doesn’t mean giving up. It means trusting that something else will come. We are still part of the cycle, even when we can’t see what’s next. When we soften our grip — on what we think should be, or on the fear of what’s next — we create room to feel, to breathe, to simply be.

When I walk through the parks and see the cherry trees in bloom, I feel a kind of quiet joy. I also feel a gentle reminder to pause, to notice, to be here now, even if just for a moment.

There is a softness in this season. A chance to begin again, in a small way. To breathe. To notice the beauty around us. To honour what we are feeling, whatever that may be.

Let it remind you that you are alive, changing, and growing. That nothing stays the same. And that this too — whatever it is — will pass. We can begin again, in whatever way we can.