Lately, I’ve noticed something stirring beneath the surface.
Even though I hike almost every day with Tova, my Alaskan Malamute and loyal trail companion, there are days I return home feeling unexpectedly tired. My body aches in quiet ways. My limbs feel heavier than usual. Not just physically, but energetically, emotionally.

There is a rhythm that lives beneath the surface of all things.
The rising sap of spring.
The full bloom of summer.
The gentle decay of autumn.
The deep rest of winter.

Five years ago, I gave birth to my lovely daughter on an Aries new moon. A fire moon. A beginning moon. The first spark in the zodiac wheel, bold, primal, and full of life force.

And yet, I birthed her in water.

I did not plan to write this book.
It came to me like a whisper in the dark, a pulse beneath my skin, a dream echoing through the hollows of my bones. It arrived in the quiet hours when the world was asleep and my womb was speaking. It emerged through my body long before it came to the page — in blood, in milk, in grief, in silence.

As the wheel turns and the Earth stirs beneath our feet, the Spring Equinox arrives like a breath of ancient remembrance. Equal light, equal dark. A sacred pause. A threshold.