There is a particular kind of listening that begins not with the ears but with the skin, the breath, the bare soles of your feet on softening ground.

It’s what I found today as I sat on a bench in Trent Park, watching tree blossom rise and fall like breath—gusted into the air, suspended, then softened back to earth. A rhythm not unlike my own.

Around me, spring was speaking in subtle tongues: unfurling leaves whose shapes I couldn’t name; white and pink blossoms that called to the part of me t…