Spring, for me, is the season of uncomplicated joy. It arrives not with the heavy promises of resolution or achievement but with a kind of effortless grace. The air warms, the days stretch gently into evening, and the world seems to loosen its grip on worry. There is no striving here, no ambition to conquer or accumulate—only the pure, immediate pleasure of sitting quietly among my roses and letting the world unfold.
The garden around me explodes in a riot of color—a living symphony arranged without conductor or plan. Peach and apricot blossoms blush against the emerald green, their petals like soft whispers of warmth. Coral blooms open boldly, catching the eye before retreating again into the chorus of life. The white roses stand apart—pure and unburdened—as though they have nothing to prove. And then there is yellow, that most elusive of colors, flickering through the leaves like captured sunlight, a reminder that joy often arrives not as a grand announcement but as a quiet illumination.
Shades of red rise unapologetically—deep crimsons and vibrant scarlets—as if daring the world to look away. And among them, the lavender-colored roses stand like delicate sighs, a soft coolness amid the heat of bolder blooms. At the garden’s edge, the irises have begun their slow retreat. Their early glories now fading, they leave behind sharp green pikes—a reminder that even beauty knows when to bow and make space for what comes next. Beneath them, the hostas unfurl their broad green and cream leaves, steady and unhurried, a quiet counterpoint to the exuberance above.
I sit here, surrounded by this living palette, and already my mind drifts toward the future. What more might I plant? What new colors might I coax from the earth? Joy, I am learning, is not something to be hoarded. It longs to expand, to stretch beyond the boundaries of what I have known. It desires to root itself deeply and bloom again in new and unexpected ways.
And then, as if summoned by the very spirit of the moment, a brilliant red cardinal lands before me. His feathers seem impossibly vivid against the soft tones of the garden, as if he carries within him all the boldness of life itself. For just a breath, we share the same space in perfect stillness. His head tilts, curious but unafraid. I hold my breath, not wanting to disturb the fragile balance of this encounter.
In that quiet, something profound happens. I am no longer merely the observer of this scene—I am part of it. Both witness and participant. For that one luminous second, I too become a thing of spring: alive, present, and utterly content.
I think often of Odilon Redon in moments like this. Of how an artist known for his brooding visions and shadowed dreams turned, in the latter part of his life, toward color and light. His early works—the famous noirs—were meditations on the unconscious, dark and enigmatic, populated by strange floating heads, cyclopean figures, and phantoms pulled from the recesses of his mind. They were the visual equivalents of existential questioning, the heavy work of understanding one’s own darkness.
But something changed. Whether it was age, wisdom, or the simple exhaustion of wandering too long through shadowed forests, Redon turned his face to the sun. His later works are luminous, saturated with vibrant pastels and glowing oils. It is as if he awoke one day and found that the darkness, though familiar, no longer satisfied.
His Tree Against a Yellow Background, painted in 1901, is the perfect embodiment of that transformation. A solitary tree stands not against a landscape but against a field of pure, unbroken yellow. There is no sky, no horizon, no context. The branches stretch delicately into the golden expanse, suspended in a space that feels less like atmosphere and more like spirit itself.
In the language of Symbolism, this isn’t just a tree—it is a soul standing in its own illumination. Yellow, often associated with joy, enlightenment, and divine presence, becomes here not a backdrop but a state of being. The tree exists within it, not apart from it.
I find myself standing at a similar threshold. Recently, after years of half-hearted attempts at modern dating—profiles created and deleted, tentative conversations begun and abandoned—I experienced something different. I matched with someone who seemed genuinely kind, and for a few weeks, we exchanged thoughtful messages. There was a warmth there, a possibility. And yet, when the time came to take the next step, to meet in person, I froze.
Was this really what I wanted? To entangle my life again with another’s rhythms and needs? To compromise the quiet, expansive freedom I have only recently begun to understand?
In that moment of hesitation, I found clarity. I am happy. I have plans to travel, to stand before great works of art in hushed galleries, to walk unfamiliar streets and feel the thrill of anonymity. I have books yet unread, gardens yet unplanted, mornings I long to wake to without obligation.
And so, with kindness and honesty, I thanked her for the conversation and deleted my profile. For the first time in a long while, I chose me. Not out of selfishness, but out of a deep and abiding desire to live fully and intentionally, to claim the life I have so carefully cultivated.
I am choosing my roses. To plant more. To linger among them. To stop and enjoy them.
Perhaps that is the truest wisdom of Redon’s late work—that there comes a time when we must step fully into the brilliance of our own lives. When we no longer need to explain our solitude or defend our contentment. When we can stand, like that solitary tree, unafraid in a vast and luminous field.
And so I sit a while longer. The cardinal has flown. The roses sway gently in the spring breeze. And I wonder—what yellow fields might I yet step into?