Category: Nature

As it turns out

As it turns out, I didn’t quit on writing or fall into a writer’s block,
I had not run out of things to say or ways to experience the world.
I fell into a deep silence, sitting in a kind of well without water,
No momentum to flourish, no observations to shape into words.
In this silence I made great friends with darkness, allowing myself
to slip between the covers of night and day, listening to hope;
transforming deep breaths into sleep and awareness into light;
welcomed, embraced without demands, I kept watch and waited.

So much happened in the time between then and now.
Just as the seasons were transforming my mountain horizon
into green leafed mansions that moved with the winds,
fear covered the earth world with illness, and forced solitude.
From my personal space I witnessed what I could not deny:
prejudices perpetuate tyranny, the pain of injustice grows
like a deadly virus until it finally takes our collective breath away.

As a people we need more than words that call for action,
more than good intentions to stand in solidarity with others;
We need voices of wise leaders willing to take risks and
oppose status quo. We need to hear the narratives of those
who know injustice and come through on the side of hope,
voices providing assurance, guidance on how to replace
violence with de-escalation, confrontation with active listening.
We cannot relive the past; this is a time to transform the future.

Pulled by the energy of necessity, making my way out
of the well of wordless darkness, I push away the ever
present doubt that I can make a difference, the question
of what can I say that others have not offered before me.
In the confinement of a well, and the space of solitude
I discover I am never alone; my thoughts are energy
creating waves, connecting me with a world others;
bound together we create momentum for change.

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Glory Be

The Pull of the Tides and Fall Harvest Moon
Drew me towards Year’s End, New Decade of
Possibilities. Winter rode Waves of early Sunsets,
Festival Lights and Celebrations.

 January Dawns with an Invitation to move Gingerly
Over Frozen Ground, Peer through Bared Arms
Of Nature at the Open Horizon. Resolve, Re-vision,
Slow down,  Change of Rhythm. 

Well, Glory Be! These Words escape my Lips
A bit like Bird-Song, An Awakening Mantra.
Surprise, Delight, tinged with Gratitude, another
Day to Spin with the Earth, Circle the Sun.

Glory Be! Keep an Eye out for the Wonders,
Gifts that keep my World in Balance,
Heal the Hurts, Right the Wrongs, Hold to the
Promise, for Love is the Axis on which we Turn.

Glory Be

Wedding Trail

Summer weds autumn on this dense
forest trail; white wood asters line the
bridal path, candelabras of goldenrods,
red maple leaves scattered like rose petals
along the path,  sun struck mica glittering,
wedding  jewels. Through the laurel arch,
past the birch and poplar stands, witnesses
bearing boutonnieres of purple turtle heads,
bouquets of white snake root; a scent of
decay nourishes life unseen; breezes stir
nature’s memory, recalling the Cherokee
partnered with the land, grateful for this
hallowed Black Mountain. The South Toe River,
faithfully moving to its Source, carries our
vows to come this way once again.

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A Hint of Lavendar

Marmalade in the Morning

The morning sun stretches,
yawning wide over mountain
ridges before slipping back
under a thick grey quilt.

Eager dark clouds push
their way across the day
while I spread lemon and
lavender marmalade over
toasted English muffin.

***

Late Afternoon Tea

Clouds smudged with the
grime of a day’s journey
align like runners carrying
a banner, “Look to the West”.

Blue, crystal blue patches
make way as day dwindles.
My last sip of lavender
and chamomile tea.

Cloud Blue Crystal

Thriving in Winter: Wrapping It Up

We are about done with winter in the south – nature is already signaling change. March announces its arrival a bit early with yesterday’s howling winds. The red maple outside my window is tipped with red buds. Dandelions persistently push though dried leaves; daffodils greet me on my walk to the park. Sitting on the park bench shaped from a fallen hickory, I consider winter’s lessons for survival.

With cues from burrowing creatures, I line my winter retreat with a stack of books, a list of movies to stream, CD’s hiding too long behind my top ten favorites choices, games I usually do not get around to playing I crochet comforters and wraps in warm colors, and delight in a variety of scarves to add more than warmth to winter wear. I pull out my highly favored fur-lined boots kept in the back of the closet for much of the year. On the coldest days I reach for my mother’s wool sweater, monogrammed with her initials.

Hoarding can also be life-giving I am very familiar with this hoarding instinct, having watched the squirrels’ frenzy of burying nuts. My lawn is covered with paw sized pits; scratched patches. Every newscaster in the northeast and much of the south sends reporters and photographers to the local hardware and grocers’ when a winter weather watch is announced. Viewers dutifully note the ritual of emptying shelves. In order to shift from surviving to thriving, I redefine the tradition of hoarding (while my pot of soup is simmering and my stash of chocolate is secure) I am hoarding gratitude. Wrapped in flannel and wool, I think about the pleasures of spiced tea, mulled cider, the snapping flame of a red cinnamon scented candle.

This year winter demands that I take an artist’s eye to a background of grey. Muted skies accent every point of color. From my reflection corner, where I read, write, and meditate, the red bird feeder that is kept inside in every other season creates a scene of vibrant activity. My kitchen window frames the suet feeder, and the frequent colorful visitors – cardinals, blue jays, black-capped chickadees, tufted titmouse, red-breasted finch, pileated woodpecker.  Their song is a winter’s jubilation as though they share in my delight at frost that sparkles when the sunlight finally appears, crystal coated mornings, the dance of snowflakes leaving a sweet layer of white icing on rhododendrons and magnolias with their candle like bulbs. Evergreens stand out in sharp contrast to their deciduous earth mates, reinforcing their own survival with a careful selection on nutrients. Seasons have a tendency to build on the spirit of anticipation, and though I pass through my winter trials with an upswing in acceptance, I eager anticipate change.

Daffodil Trail

Thriving in Winter: Acceptance

My thoughts on winter are moderated by the reality that I grew up in the south, on the east coast. Snow only arrived as a rare occurrence, a fluke. I don’t recall growing tired of winter as a child. The bite of cold was never sub zero, but always chilled by ocean breeze. Perhaps I experienced winter as a settling, being warmed by a coal fire while curled on the sofa reading. I dressed over the single heating grate in the floor of a small back hallway, pulling corduroys under my school dress. On Saturdays the bean pot simmered with pintos and corn bread baked in the oven. Winter was mistletoe in the tops of trees, Christmas, candy canes and oranges in stockings. The nut bowl, with the cracker and pick made its first appearance. Walnuts were always my favorite. Hot chocolate was served with a pile of melting marshmallows, ready to stick to the upper lip. My brothers and I put soft peppermint sticks in the center of oranges and drew on delight.

With a turn of the wall calendar winter became the liturgical season of  lent, a time to exchange “going without” for a few good and forgiving mercies. I learned to play chess one winter, and the card table was always up in the living room. Candy hearts and valentines messages created a spark of joy before winter departed. The beach in winter was made for walking, slowly, with plenty of time to explore the horizon, guessing what it would be like to swim to the other side, dreaming about discoveries.

Yearning is undeniably winter’s rough edge of desire, wanting the days to be something different, watching for the first chance to play baseball in the empty corner lot; waiting for the tight buds of azaleas to reveal color. Promises of spring are universal signs of hope. Restless desire for “anything but this”, however, becomes a source of discontent. Too often my memory of accepting winter for what it brings in the present moment is buried under layers of looking for change.

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Thriving in Winter: Lights Up!

If you were to name the four seasons – where would you begin? Would you draw on the calendar year, answer with the early learning chants of childhood? “The four seasons are winter, summer, spring and fall.” Or is there an innate sense of life cycle that frames your understanding: Spring – new birth; summer- flourishing life; fall- harvest and letting go; wintering – cold, dark, dying? Now the circle of reasoning returns to the necessary hidden life of winter. Gestation. All that lies fallow. Browned earth, bare trees, forest hiking trails carrying the musky scent of decaying leaves. Winter dormancy is essential to survival and renewal of the life-giving processes.

Your approach to winter is a matter of perspective. In my east coast southern climate, snowbirds are found on designated mountain slopes, but the everyday reality is more often the drizzling kind of cold. You’ve heard it said. In fact I have heard myself say: “I am so done with winter.” On a late afternoon walk I recently ran into a neighbor who made this very same declaration. My first interpretation was he was planning a trip to warmer climes – where winter sits not so deep and cold. “No,” he said, “I am just heading to Maggie B’s – today is red wine.” Germinating takes some time. I have been ruminating on winter, intentionally developing a new life plan not to simply survive winter, but to thrive while lying fallow.

In truth November does a good job of preparing for the inevitable – the early sun sets leaving me no choice but to let go of my leisurely evening after dinner strolls. Meteorological winter begins December first and paradoxically arrives with its name in written lights, Garlands of white lights appear around doors and porches; draped on outdoor evergreen. Colored strands of light can be viewed through windows. Candles appear on the dinner table, the early push for holiday mood setting. And I say “bring it on.”  Every bit of twinkle that lightens the darkness gives a festive touch to winter’s arrival.

Nature has its way with irony. Astronomical winter officially arrives with the winter solstice. In the Northern Hemisphere Dec. 21 may or may not be the shortest day of the year, but it’s a good average possibility. Of course the solstice – the polar tilt away from the sun is a only moment in time. A minute or two at a time, the day begins to lengthen. And herein lies the magic of surviving winter. Time is marked by our constant move forward (or around). One of my great annual delights is the moment I experience the lengthening of days. I am generally making preparations for dinner, looking out the window at the color of the sunset. Quite early in January, after all the hub of holidays has quieted and I have once again fallen into a welcomed routine, a different kind of light catches my attention. Daylight still dazzling me; the gentle quiet before the roses and golds are draped on the horizon. I see. I see. Winter is in motion.

weaverville winter

Love the Day

From the sky that has hung close to my world these days, a seemingly endless interchange between heavy mist, rain, and grey punctuates the end of one year and the beginning of another. The sun is a promise – according to the meteorologist, a near promise. As I sit at my desk to reflect on this day, I see through my “I spy” window a pale teal balloon bouncing up the hill, apparently deciding which way the wind blows – a dash of color against the bleakness of wet pavement. I wonder who let go of the string and was it a celebratory moment. Are they sad or happy when the balloon freely floats away? I find myself hoping that a dried twig or sharp post does not burst its bubble – at least not yet. I need the lift, the bounce. I need to love this moment as much as the anticipated rose warmth of a sunny Sunday. When I push open the front door that encloses me in silence, I hear a chorus of birdsong. Among the singers there is one who trills the notes of gladness. I want to delight in the damp as much as she does.

I ended one year and began the next reading The Bright Hour by Nina Riggs, a gift. The subtitle is “A Memoir of Living and Dying”. Thirty-seven years old, mother of two, great, great, great granddaughter of Ralph Waldo Emerson. Her life is immersed in family. She and her mother are living and dying together. Riggs draws on her kinship with the 19th century poet, essayist, and philosopher as the landscape of her life radically transforms. Stage one breast cancer to stage four. As her story draws to an end she muses on the paradox of friends whose lives are winding up – anticipating births, marriages, milestones- just as she is learning how to wind down. She writes to chronicle this time for her two young sons, that they will experience her love, and in the process opens up a world of understanding for readers. Rigg’s memoir gifted me with a new appreciation of what it means to love the present. She writes: “My voice: I have to love these days the same as any other…They are promises. They are the only way to walk from one night to the other.”1 And she shows the way. Riggs points to the influence of Emerson’s journals2. His passion for nature and transcendence emerges in Rigg’s sense of discovering what she refers to as the magic in the natural world, the everyday world. Riggs died February 26, 2017 just before the sun rose in the winter sky.

“Write it in your heart that every day is the best day of the year.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

1Nina Riggs, Bright Hour: Memoir of Living and Dying, p.306

2“Before I Go: A Mother’s Hopeful Words About Life in the Waning Moments”, an interview published in the Washington Post January 1, 2017,

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Winter’s Hush

Advent. Winter’s hush. Listen. Let go of haste and come follow me. Make a space for silence to linger. You can hear your world change. Boots slap the muddy trail; footsteps shuffle dried grass. A woodpecker drills the three o’clock hour into the bark of the chestnut, red head appearing at the top of the tree. River curves around the bend, rippling with satisfaction.  A meandering side creek pulls you towards the hill’s pregnant Waters glide under the footbridge and trickle over stones, calling out with delight. Out of sight the syncopated clip of a horse’s hooves picks up the pace. The barest shuffle of wind rattles the field of dried corn husks. The ducks’ insistent chatter draws you back to the pond. Stop where you began. Look down. Reflections of pines and cloudless blue skies silently fall below the water’s surface. Let the peace reign within. Advent. Listen. It’s Winter’s Song.

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To fully take in the silent, the swell of gratitude must be greater than guilt, for I have stolen the empty moments from the driven purposefulness of a busy day. Nature created the pause; issued the invitation to come away. Warm air currents rode over the tops of our wintering mountains, whisking away the lingering grey, draping the sky with a steely blue. When I stepped outside my door, the sun brushed my cheek and the breeze whispered, “come follow me”.  A longing for release tugged my spirit. Rhythmic pendulum movements of my legs freed my mind of thought.  Enduring pleasure emerged in silence, renewing my body, restoring my soul. Advent. Just wait for it.

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