Every year around this time, I start to ache for spring vegetables. I dream of fiddleheads - tight green bunches of unfurled springtime, sauteed in butter. I drool at the thought of spring spinach, sitting bashfully on plate under a thin drizzle of vinegar. My eyes linger on the tender asparagus stalks flown into Whole Foods from God knows where. I send curses to California for having it so good.

But for all my impatience, I think we ultimately need these late-winter cravings. On the Jewish calendar, Tu Bishvat has passed, marking the symbolic moment when sap begins flowing again in the trees after a winter of dormancy. And Pesach has not yet arrived, ushering in its flagrant displays of greenery and rebirth. It is a time of intense growth and change; the swelling of seeds just below the soil surface, not yet apparent to the outside world.

At this time of year, like the trees and the earth, I often feel a bubbling inside that some profound (or subtle) life-shift is happening within and around me. Sometimes it hurts. I’m left feeling muddled and impatient, reluctantly accepting uncertainty. But there is also a great sense of hope in this time, and a promise that, with the first taste of spring, my own freedom will be revealed.