In a classroom in England, something extraordinary happened. Ducklings hatched. There is a reason eggs and ducklings feel inseparable from spring. This is the season of beginning again. As daylight lengthens in the Northern Hemisphere, birds respond almost immediately. Their internal rhythms signal that it is time to nest, to lay eggs, to begin the fragile process of bringing new life into the world. Eggs are, perhaps, the most perfect symbol of this. What is remarkable about ducklings, and all hatchlings, is how quickly they cross the threshold from stillness to movement. Inside the egg, it waits. Suddenly, there is tapping, a crack, and a ball of yellow feathers emerge. There are small, fascinating details that make this moment even more extraordinary. Ducklings can communicate from inside the egg before they hatch, making soft sounds to synchronize with one another. They are born with the instinct to follow movement, which is why they imprint so quickly on the first figure they see. And within hours, they can walk, swim, and explore with surprising independence for something so newly arrived. There is a phrase for this season: spring chicken. In this situation: spring duckling. Originally, spring chicken meant exactly what it sounds like: a young bird hatched in spring, new to the world and full of life. As we age, the phrase becomes a reversal: I’m no spring chicken. And yet, standing in a classroom with a newly hatched duckling resting in small hands, the phrase feels closer to its original meaning again: not about age, but about being at the very beginning of something new, however briefly. Children know instinctively how to hold a newly hatched bird: carefully, curiously, and with a kind of reverence, as if they know they are holding a new beginning in their hands. Sometimes, we can hold spring in two hands.
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Thursday, 19 March 2026
Spring and a duckling held in two hands
Tuesday, 17 March 2026
Spring starts slowly in Paris
Spring does not arrive in Paris all at once. Spring begins almost invisibly. It does not make a grand entrance, like summer with its long evenings and crowded terraces. It does not announce itself like autumn, with its turning leaves and golden light. A few weeks ago, there were days when the sun felt warm. People sat outside cafés along the Boulevard Saint-Germain, coats open. And then, the weather turned. Last weekend brought cold weather back again. Even hail, sudden and unexpected. Is spring here? Not yet? Despite this cold snap, spring has already begun. The first signs were almost unnoticed. Daffodils appeared almost overnight in the Luxembourg Gardens. Crocuses pushed through cold soil. Those earliest blossoms, tentative and pale, as if unsure of their timing, were there. Even the light changed before the temperature did. The light lingered longer in the evenings.Spring is on its way. Spring is near. Spring is here – but in the mist of the cold snap. Spring is inevitable. In the Northern Hemisphere, spring is more than a season. It is a kind of collective exhale.After months of grey skies and inward living, people begin to re-emerge, slowly at first, then all at once. There is something deeply human about this anticipation of spring weather. Peoplelook forward to spring not only for warmth, but to sit outside again, to smell the flowers, and to look forward to new beginnings. In the coming weeks, trees along the river Seine will bloom. The window boxes will fill with tulips, magnificent magnolias will bring pink hues to courtyards, and chestnut trees will bring the roasted chestnut vendors onto the streets. Cafés will expand outward. Chairs will turn to face the street. Coats will become lighter in material and colour, with more silk scarves and less wool wraps. Markets will change too. Winter vegetables will give way to the first asparagus, early strawberries, and lighter food. There will be spring exhibitions, open-air events, and the return of music along the riverbanks. What I love most about spring in Paris is that it does not arrive with certainty. It comes in fragments: a warm afternoon, a crisp morning, a sudden storm of hail, and a blossom that appears anyway. Change does not need to be immediate to be real. Spring approaches slowly, until one day we realise that it has been here all along. Spring, Almost (by Martina Nicolls) It begins slowly in Paris, a softness in the light, a longer pause before evening. The flowers arrive first, inevitably, as if they have kept a promise I had forgotten. Cold returns, briefly, a hand on the shoulder, saying “wait, not yet.” And still, in the mist, something happens. I walk differently. I look up more, to see the blue sky. I wait. Spring is not a moment in time. It is a slow lean toward warmth, toward colour, toward something fresh and new. Spring does not make a grand entrance in Paris. It begins slowly, then stalls, until one morning, without announcement, I realise it has already begun.
Can’t see the whole article? Want to view the original article? Want to view more articles? Go to Martina’s Substack: The Stories in You and Me More Paris articles are in my Paris website The Paris Residences of James Joyce You're currently a free subscriber to The Stories in You and Me . For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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Spring and a duckling held in two hands
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