Begin Again
A quiet reflection on beginner’s mind, slow growth, and the early days of spring
Welcome to the Michelle Seguin MD newsletter! I’m Dr. Michelle, and I’m so glad you’re here. This community of 950+ readers is growing into something truly special, and we’re getting so close to 1k! This week, I’m reflecting on the quiet momentum of early spring, the awe of beginner’s mind, and what it means to tend to the small, tender things, both in the garden and in our lives.
Hello friends,
The days are slowly stretching out, and the light feels a little different now. It’s brighter and carries a quiet promise. Indoors, my seed trays are filling up, each tiny leaf reaching gently toward the window. While the garden still waits for the soil to warm, I can feel the season beginning to shift. There’s a tenderness to this early part of spring, a soft invitation to return, to notice, to begin again. I hope this month’s reflection meets you in that space.
With gratitude,
Dr. Michelle
Begin Again
The garden is still quiet. Outside, the ground holds the memory of snow, soft in some places, stubborn in others. The soil isn’t quite ready yet. But indoors, under the steady glow of grow lights, the season is stirring.
The seed trays are full again. Rows of small, tender beginnings reach toward the light. Some are old favorites I return to each year. Others are new, their names still unfamiliar.
Yellow oxheart tomatoes.
Piena di Napoli winter squash.
Tulsi holy basil.
Each planted with equal parts curiosity and hope.
I check on them each morning, rotate the trays, water gently, lean close to admire the first true leaves. It’s a quiet ritual. A practice in patience. A kind of prayer. No matter how many springs I’ve done this, it always feels like the first time.
The awe still finds me. Does it find you, too?
The garden reminds me that it’s not about knowing. It’s about being here for it. Seeing the stretch of a stem, the lean of a leaf, the changing light. I’m learning to meet these early weeks not with urgency, but with care. With curiosity. With a willingness to stay in the middle of the process, even without all the answers.
That is the heart of beginner’s mind. Not wiping the slate clean, but returning to the familiar with openness. Letting go of what we think we know so we can really see what’s here. Approaching each seedling, each season, each unfolding part of life as if for the first time.
And isn’t that what early spring asks of us?
To begin again, not from certainty, but from wonder.
To tend what’s unfolding, even if we’re not sure what it will become.
To allow space for what’s new, imperfect, and beautifully unknown.
There are things I’m tending in my life right now that feel a lot like those seedlings—quiet, tender, still taking shape. Some are practices I’ve returned to with a beginner’s mind. Others are dreams beginning to take form, slowly moving from vision to reality. And still, not everything is ready to be planted. Like the garden, I’m learning that tending begins not with certainty, but with presence: showing up, preparing the soil, making space for what matters to take root when the time is right.
These early May days, when the season is shifting but hasn’t fully arrived, offer their own kind of wisdom. They remind me that becoming doesn’t happen all at once. That the pause before the flourish is part of the cycle too.
To linger in the not-yet.
To allow what’s unfolding.
To open without needing to know how it ends.
The older I get, the more I’m drawn to this kind of becoming. The slow kind. The spacious kind. The kind that makes room for mystery. It’s not always comfortable, but it feels real. Alive. Awake.
This is the invitation of early spring:
To begin again, not with striving, but with softness.
To meet life with a beginner’s mind.
To tend to what’s growing, gently.
Even now, especially now, that is enough.
This Season, Begin Softly
A practice for tending what’s quietly growing
If you’re caring for seedlings, or simply something small and new in your life, pause for a moment this week.
Step outside, even if the ground is still soft or thawing. Feel the air on your skin.
Then ask:
What am I quietly growing right now?
Where in my life can I meet the moment with curiosity instead of expectation?
What becomes possible when I allow things to unfold in their own time?
You don’t have to name it. Just notice. Let the noticing be enough.
This month’s cookbook club pick, Feel Good Food by Jeanine Donofrio, was chosen by this wonderful community. It’s full of recipes that meet you where you are: bright, nourishing meals for a busy Wednesday or a slow, lingering Sunday. Organized around real-life rhythms like make-ahead staples, feel-good lunches, and cozy weeknight dinners, it invites you to cook based on how you want to feel: energized, comforted, restored. With its fresh, colorful, vegetable-forward focus, it’s a beautiful fit for spring and early summer cooking.
New to the Cookbook Club? Check out this welcome post and download this month’s guide to get started. I hope you’ll join us!
As we step into this new month together, may you find small moments to pause, to notice, and to tend what’s quietly growing, both in the garden and in your life. I’m so grateful to share this seasonal rhythm with you.
With love and care,
Dr. Michelle
P.S. If this reflection spoke to you, please consider liking it or sharing it with a friend. This growing community is a space for slowing down, savoring the seasons, and reconnecting with what nourishes us—body, mind, and spirit. If you’re new here, I’d love to welcome you into our Savor the Seasons Cookbook Club, where we explore food as medicine, one beautiful meal at a time.
Here are my most recent Substack sharings:
Michelle, this is beautiful! I loved this
“the pause before the flourish is part of the cycle too.”
Those tiny seeds fill me with optimism, too!