Spring has sprung

Within and without.

May 05, 2025

Hello (again, if you’re returning!) 👋🏾 I’m Ingrid and I publish Permission. I share words about my world as a grieving woman, in middle age, as a mother of boys, as an Australian living in The Netherlands, and all the nuance (and mess) that goes along with these. To know more you are welcome to check out my About page, and to read more you are welcome to check out Permission.

No one told me how blooming The Netherlands would be in the Spring. Of course, I know it as the tulip capital of the world, and seeing the budding tulips all over the towns and in gardens has been delightful.

But it’s so much more than the tulips. As the dark Winter and its milky light gave way to bright Spring days of endless blue skies, the crocuses blew through me. Crocuses in this kind of abundance are new to me, as they are not an early Spring sign that I’ve seen when I’ve lived in Sydney or London during this time of year. This early Spring, I was wandering outside every chance I got to take in the clusters surrounding tree roots or decorating sidewalks. I took so many photos, and I rarely take photos, because the colours and the brightness and the Spring-ness of it all was a constant joy.

Not having experienced a farewell to Winter quite like this, the rolling waves of royal purple, soft lilac, pure white and golden yellow crocuses throughout my corner of the world were revolutionary. They felt like the herald of change after a dark Winter that lasted longer than a single season, more on that in a moment.

I didn’t think it could get much better than the crocuses. Then came the blossoms.

I’ve known for a long time that I adore blossoms. Apple blossoms, cherry blossoms, orange blossoms, even almond blossoms. Give me a blossom and I’ll coo over it like a newborn. I have yet to make it to Japan for the cherry blossom season; I think I know how much it will blow my mind and heart wide open, so I’m building the anticipation.

But again, The Netherlands surprises and delights with its blossoms. The bare trees who pointed their spindly finger-branches at the grey skies throughout Winter are now laden with clusters of flowers so voluminous they bow towards me as I approach. I simply can’t walk past the dark pink blossoms without taking a moment to appreciate their richness. The light pinks hold a sweetness and lightness that invariably lifts my mood. And the whites, so delicate and ethereal, until a wind blows through and suddenly I’m standing amongst a seabed of thick cloudy petals, blanketing the ground beneath without a trace.

And then, back to those tulips. The fire-engine reds and canary yellows are captivating. The image you might have in your mind – waves of tulips swaying together in the breeze with an arbitrary 17th century Dutch windmill in the background – it’s a cliché because it’s real and I’ve driven past it countless times this Spring alone. The Australian in me can barely comprehend the beauty of it, and my driving may suffer slightly as my attention is diverted to those fields (please don’t tell the de Politie on me).

Beyond the ‘common’ (of course not meant pejoratively), there are wildly unique tulips with ruffles and curves and swirls of colours. The petals on one look spiky, and the petals on another look like melted rubber. The loveliness of this bloom makes me think it was created from a heart’s wish, the strangeness of that bloom makes me wonder if it was imported from an alien planet. With nature’s art on full display, it’s unsurprising to feel like I’m living in a painting – the most beautiful, vivid, emotive painting of Dutch blooms in their prime.

It's a welcome feeling, after what came before.

Winter

This past Winter was my first in The Netherlands and my first back in the northern hemisphere since before the pandemic. It wasn’t the cold that got to me, though it was very cold. It was the grey. The days when the sun seemed to ‘rise’, such as it did, around 9am, and then ‘set’ by 3pm. But in reality, it felt as though the sun didn’t really rise or set during those months. Most days there was a vague lightening of the sky from darkness to dark grey, then perhaps to lighter grey for a couple of hours, before the dark grey returned momentarily, and then it was nighttime. This, on repeat, for months.

I know it sounds bleak, and I may be exaggerating, but if so, only slightly. To prove my point, in December 2024 The Netherlands recorded the longest stretch of consecutive days without sunshine since 1990, with eleven days straight[1]. And while there are a lot worse things happening at the moment and a lot harder things to deal with during a Winter, eleven days feels like a lot of days to not feel the sun on my skin. And aren’t there a bunch of health benefits, both mental and physical, to getting regular protected exposure to the sun? Surely I read something about that.

But beyond this singular season, I feel like I’ve been in Winter for a longer time. With loss and grief, illness, lockdowns, and a four-year displacement, I can’t really pinpoint the last time I felt Spring touch me the way it has this year, with promise and with potential, with the possibility of something more.

Not more moving overseas, because the move from Australia to The Netherlands last year was enough for a long time and I’m still recovering. Not more hustling, because I’ve done that in my work life enough to learn the hard way that hustling and burnout are two surefire bedfellows for me – can’t have one without the other. Chasing growth-at-any-cost and external metrics that don’t equal success for me are out, and working in alignment with vision and purpose are in.

I think the more is more connection, with communities both online and around me who help me feel part of something caring, loving, supportive. More connection with myself and the glorious questions I find myself sitting with: what’s next for me? What do I want to do, feel, experience, learn? Who do I need more time with? What can I let go of to create the space I need? What gifts are mine, uniquely mine, to share with the world? And, inevitably, how can I get more flowers in my life?

What a privilege it is to be faced with these questions. At another time, they felt heavy and scary. Now they feel like an opportunity to step decidedly from Winter into Spring. Knowing, as with all things cyclical, Winter will come again. But next time, I’ll have had this wonderful Spring to fortify myself.

Spring has sprung, and so have I.

Permission

Spring has sprung

Within and without.

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