Reluctantly, I left my apartment in the lovely Nolita neighborhood of Manhattan mid-March to seek shelter in my hometown of Greenville, SC. I was filled with anxiety amidst the turn of events in this global pandemic. My normal tendency is to fight through anything, never give up no matter what, but the feeling I had the day the city started to shut down was unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I never imagined that the city that never sleeps would go dark.

When I arrived in New York City, the neighborhood I chose as my home was colorful and vibrant, people from all walks of life, every day I would walk outside and see something new, my eyes wide open. And now I find myself almost a year later watching these doors close, the gates go down, the tourists no where in sight, all the color receding to the gray, red, brown of brick, metal gates and empty pavement.

I was sad to walk away. I came to this city to meet a vibrant cultural life, excitement and wakefulness, thriving on the intensity and the rollercoaster of experience. But when I saw the gate shut to my beloved Elizabeth Street Garden, I knew I had to retreat, give in to the reality of the situation, walk away.

So then I wake up and find myself unexpectedly in my hometown, it took a few days to recover to my new surroundings. No more urban sounds, no hustle of people, no unexpected city display, lights, movement, chaotic whirl. Now I hear birds, and I watch the passage of light. I see so many shades of green, as if I am seeing color for the first time, the natural world vibrant and visceral. Although it can feel strange to be so alone now, I feel that I am experiencing a fresh new springtime, new life, a new gift. I want to capture it through art somehow, the sensuality, freshness, each mark beginning anew.

So everything closes, what sadness I feel, but springtime is happening. They can’t cancel this spring. They can’t cancel our lives. We continue like the spring. Although the way through this new reality can seem confusing, my efforts now are to simplify as much as possible. When I once seemed so close to my ambition’s desire, I had to stop, walk away, let go. I mourn the loss of this life. But perhaps there is something new to build. And it’s much better. Perhaps this is another cycle of life, and like the seasons turning, it knows the direction.

So I relish while I can in springtime. Hold on to it. Breath in the honeysuckle scent, the green grass of my childhood, the red clay, gentle creeks, and bright pink flowers everywhere.

Growth can be hard. I won’t say it is easy. It can be hard for everyone. We are all fighting our own battles in some way. This new reality is a great equalizer. But what I can do is open my eyes, and when I make the choice I embrace a simplicity that is natural, simple and alive.

Tomorrow comes, the sun rises, and here we are. Colorful and resilient. Maybe it’s best this way.