Slow Notes 10

March 2026 in review—and a few recommendations and prompts for you.

Rachel Schwartzmann

Mar 31, 2026

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👋 Notes on March

In the spirit of slow storytelling, I’m taking a little break and resharing an excerpt (slightly edited) from my letter “Imagine That,” which I published last March. Enjoy—and stay tuned for new stories in April!

“How do you keep going?” an artist friend muses as we wander Prospect Park. I squint thoughtfully under the late morning sun and share a few generalizations until she stops me. “I mean, how do you keep going?”

In so many words, I tell her that obligation and responsibility keep me going. There is no other choice day to day, which is the case for most of us. But what I don’t say is that imagination keeps me going, too—that it’s something I’ll always choose to value even if it’s deemed frivolous or “distracting.”

Think about what you have to focus on versus what you naturally daydream about. Then go one step further: What is imagination? What does it demand creatively—energetically? It takes a different kind of stamina to endure life’s physicality—making money, cultivating a home, maintaining our health—versus the space for imagining something bigger than ourselves. Some people call it art; others call it love.

A season synonymous with renewal, spring is the time to pay attention to and follow these imaginative threads. But isn’t its arrival always a little tiring? That sudden rush of life we have to get used to again. Over the years, I’ve found beauty in the exhaustion—a reminder that blooming doesn’t (need to) happen all at once.

I appreciate how Katherine May described spring’s nuances in one of her letters:

“Most of all, spring feels like a season of immanence, like held breath. I spend the whole time waiting for something to happen.”

Lately, many of us are waiting for something to happen, both good and bad. In art and life. And with each disquieting feeling that we’re not doing enough to meet the moment, Mother Nature shows her hand: We need spring’s damp, temperamental days to remind us of all we can withstand—because it’s only going to get harder. Yet that hardness is a testament to our strength. It offers a firm foundation to stand strong and imagine a better world.

On our way out of the park, my friend and I spot a small, vibrant flower amid the earthen palette. Its home looks tough and moist and alive. It looks out of place, yet it’s right where it belongs. “I’m so glad you notice these things,” she says after a moment. And I smile because I can’t imagine not acknowledging these small bursts of life.

Neither of us touches the flower, though it touches something inside us, and I suppose that is one thing that keeps me going.