Every spring, I’m amazed at how nature explodes into life. One day the trees are bare, and the next – almost overnight – they’re bursting with freshly green leaves. The shrubs wake up. The magnolias unfurl their pink and white cups to the sky. The cherry blossoms flutter in the breeze like delicate confetti. The air in front of the house is pregnant with the sweet scent of lily of the valley—so sweet, in fact, that it’s not uncommon to see a passing cyclist brake suddenly, garden scissors in hand, to snip a small bunch to freshen up their living room.
But what strikes me most isn’t just the abundance. It’s the order in which it all happens.
First, the snowdrops appear—small and shy, often blooming through the last patches of frost. Then come the crocuses, stretching eagerly toward the early sun. The daffodils follow soon after, bold and golden. Then hyacinths, tulips, and bluebells take their turn, layering scent and colour across the garden like a slow, deliberate crescendo. Every plant seems to know exactly when to wake up. Birds return in large numbers and are busy nesting everywhere – tits flying in and out of the various birdhouses, a woodpecker nibbling at the bird food that hangs from the pear tree, and ducks laying their eggs in a nest in our yard.
There’s structure, rhythm. A wisdom to how life returns and it all interconnects.
Out here at our monumental farmhouse, on a sunny Easter Day, surrounded by beech and oak trees, that rhythm feels even more profound. The orchard is slowly waking—ancient pear trees budding again. We’ve been planting a beech hedge along the side of the road, trusting those small green shoots will one day offer shelter and beauty. The sheep – my lawn mowers – graze peacefully in the orchard. A mole is active in the lawn again – little hills appearing overnight. And yes, I’ve started chopping firewood already—perhaps a bit early, but somehow it feels right. Like part of the cycle.
And yet, none of this can be truly seen—let alone felt—if we’re rushing past it.
To experience the miracle of spring fully, we have to slow down. To be present. To pay attention. It’s in the quiet moments—the early morning light on new leaves, the soft hum of bees in blossom—that we remember how miraculous this rhythm really is.
Leadership, the Spring Way
And isn’t that also what true leadership asks of us?
In a world that glorifies speed, urgency, and nonstop output, nature shows us a different way: growth through stillness, clarity through observation, power through presence.
Personal leadership—especially heart-led leadership—is not about constant doing. It’s about deep listening. Tuning into the timing of things. Holding space for emergence. Not fueled by fear of not being good enough but trusting that the right action will come, if we are rooted enough to feel it.
We can’t force growth in ourselves or in others. But we can cultivate the conditions for it. We can prepare the soil, offer light, make room for breath, roll out the garden hose for water. We can show up not with answers, but with presence.
And there’s something else that happens when we slow down.
When our minds relax—when we stop grasping for solutions and let our attention expand—creativity has room to emerge. New ideas, fresh insights, unexpected connections… they don’t come from pressure. They come from space. And nature, in all its quiet complexity, is often our most powerful source of inspiration. A walk among trees or time spent watching clouds can unlock more innovation than a dozen meetings.
Spring doesn’t question its pace. It leads by rhythm, not force. And it reminds us: the best ideas, the most alive leadership, often grow from the stillness in between.
So, where in your leadership—or life—are you being invited to slow down, listen deeply, and trust the rhythm instead of pushing the pace? And when was the last time you gave your senses enough stillness to surprise you?
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