I did, actually. Veridia. From the Latin for green.
The old names for the spring equinox carried the past with them.
The rites, the mythology, the gods who had to be petitioned before the land would yield.
Sacred, yes, but sacred in the way that keeps you small.
Dependent. Waiting for permission.
That dependency is the problem.
The equinox doesn’t care what we call it.
On 20th March the blackthorn flowers anyway.
The wood anemones thread through the leaf litter.
The days tip into balance.
This has been happening for longer than we’ve had words for it.
But the story we tell about that moment matters.
Stories shape behaviour. Behaviour shapes land.
Veridia is a different story.
Not overlords. Not supplicants either.
Not managers of nature, but members of it.
People who show up, pay attention, take only what the system can give, and put something back.
Local. Reciprocal. Rooted.
It’s also where Domei lives. That sustained, patient attention to the other-than-human world that changes you, if you let it.
The spring equinox isn’t asking us to celebrate it.
It’s asking us what kind of kin we intend to be.