Author: Stacey Hayes

Journaling

Spell of Autumn

Stacey Hayes

The winds have changed, and the northerly breezes ushered in a spell of autumn. 

If there were a metal weathervane on our rooftop, it would have spiraled around and around and landed on fall!

With shifting winds, new patterns unfold. Birds migrate each night overhead while we nod off to sleep. Thickets of goldenrod fill the hedgerows. The neighborhood owls hoot and holler at the waning light. And early autumn awakens a bit of magic within me.

With that, I offer this playful poem.

Spell of Autumn

By Stacey Hayes

Magic golden glints of light

shadow seekers

dusk, then night.

Sticks and bark

and moss and moon,

autumn wrens and sparrows swoon—

on shifting winds and cooling ground

swirling, spiraling round and round.

Dancing fungi, bursting seeds

The inner and outer

weave and weave.

Embracing me—

spell of autumn,

bed of leaves.

Autumn Journaling Prompts:

Reflect. Root. Release.

These words kept coming to me as I thought about both the dramatic and subtle changes that fall brings. You may want to journal about these themes or simply use them to guide a conversation with a friend or loved one. My hope is that making space for reflection will offer nourishment and intentionality as you honor the season you are in.

Reflect

Fall is full of transitions. Birds coming and going, the gradual changing and dropping of leaves, new weather patterns, and lengthening nights. 

What might these changes stir in you? 

Root

What traditions, rituals, or rhythms root you this time of year?

What nature element symbolizes rootedness for you (tree roots, soil, stone, others)? 

Release

What may you need to release to make space for the gifts of this season or the present gifts in your life?

Contemplative Practices

Poetic Windows

Stacey Hayes

The Practice of  Ordinary Wonder

Even though the calendar has turned to September, the atmosphere weighs heavy with heat here in the south. And I haven’t been spending as much time outside.

Instead, I’ve leaned into connecting with nature out my window just as I would on cold winter days. Longing for airy autumn, I try to make a practice of cherishing what is here right now. Embracing the small moments as offerings of the sacred ordinary.

This particular poetic window is beside our kitchen table. It looks out onto our weathered deck where I have a few potted plants, a variety of bird baths, and a hummingbird feeder. There is also an overgrown fig tree.

The curtain has closed on the summer fig feast. The ripe fruits have all been eaten by creatures great and small. From nighttime raccoons to squirrels to gray catbirds and insects—wasps, bees, and ants. A few have dried up on the wooden planks or decayed under the tree, a return to the soil from which they came.

Sipping my morning coffee, I watch the ruby throated hummingbird sip nectar from the last flowering plants of the waning season and drinking my homemade nectar. I cherish them knowing they’ll be headed much further south soon.

Meanwhile, the goldfinch and house finch dine from the same basil plant—mature and woody and gone to seed. In the evenings, the window showcases dusk lengthening her arms over the tree canopy.

This window isn’t poetic because it’s fancy or peers out onto a perfectly manicured lawn. Its poetry is the interconnected life that it brings into focus. The borders frame scenes of ordinary wonder.

Scenes of  hummingbirds, the resident wrens, the chickadee splashing in the littlest birdbath. And the teenage cottontail who sneaks on the deck to munch on aster leaves. The flowers going to seed, nearing the end of their life cycle just as summer rounds out its own.

I offer my attention to the gifts that present themselves on the other side of these panes. The roots of the word ‘to attend’ have meanings such as ‘to stretch toward’ and ‘to devote oneself’—such appropriate reminders of the true nature of attention.

Gazing through the glass panels has become a practice of presence. Of kindling kinship and reverence. This quiet, steady routine connects me to nature’s rhythms and moments of holy ordinary. It sustains me in this season of in-between.

Sometimes I’ll make a note or list of what I’ve noticed in my journal. Pen to page so I can relive those sacred moments again and again. And sometimes this practice of attending inspires a poem.

The wood-framed glass is an expansive lens into the shifting seasons—into the wondrous cyclical rhythms inviting our gaze. 

An Invitation: The Practice of Poetic Windows

Do you have a window that you gaze into (or out of) regularly?

Take a moment to reflect on the gifts it may offer you and how it may cultivate the quiet rhythm of attention and holy wonder.

You may want to use these prompts for noticing or journaling:

What is present?

What is absent?

What is unfolding?

What is surprising?

What is comforting?

May you welcome the solace of the natural world. May you welcome the sanctuary of your own words.

By Stacey M. Hayes

Enchantment, Hummingbirds, Nature’s Wisdom, Summer, Wonder

Spell of Summer

Stacey Hayes

It already feels like long summer days have arrived here in North Carolina. Dusk has brought a few twinkling fireflies, and we’ve harvested cucumbers and okra  from our little garden. While nesting season is slowing down, some songbirds are watching over their final broods. (Hello, bluebirds!)

The sun lingers longer, the air is thicker, and we are in desperate need of rain. Meanwhile, the school bus made its last trek down our road last week.

As I’ve gotten older, the spirit of summer has changed for me. I am less tolerant of heat and humidity but enjoy evening balmy breezes. My creativity seem to wane as summer’s abundance shines in full sunlight. Yet, I am open to the season’s magic and wonders…

Dusk has become my favorite time of day. The resident hummingbird and I share a rhythm of eating and watching the sun retreat behind the tree canopy. The female flits between the hummingbird feeder and her perch—a small twig on our fig tree.

In contrast to the fiery quality of a June day, dusk brings gentleness. I watch the bird’s silhouette against a muted sky and treasure this ritual at day’s end with this tiny, magical being. It’s a soothing, slowing down after a high energy day for both of us.

As I’ve written about before, summer is a season of fullness—calling for play, for adventures near and far, and, yes, for rest and sacred pauses. In that spirit, I point you to a few reflections that I’ve written over the years that touch on the sundry sentiments of summer. 

 “A Storied Shell” explores how childhood collections inspire childhood memories and storytelling. 

This piece on “Soulful Micro Seasons” reminds us to search for the small wonders in our own backyards, even when things may seem still and stagnant.

And this mini essay “Illuminate” conjures a bit of magic as I marvel at moonbeams, moths, and fireflies in a summertime state of wonder.

Finally, I leave you with a spell of summer and a poetic invitation.

Spell of Summer

by Stacey Hayes

Bees on balm,

cottontails in clover,

firefly sparkles in dimming light,

a nearly risen glowy moon.

Two squirrels with reddish tails,

childhood tales and baby ear shells. 

Magic and mystery, 

delight and predictability.

Rhythms as wonder,

swirling skies and rolling thunder,

dragonflies and dandelions,

hummingbird wings fluttering—

luminescent, transient 

sky, sun, and sea.

May what glimmers and shines

surround me,

May the scared live within me.

Wondrous, abundant season of summer.

~

A Poetic Invitation

Explore the idea of “summering” by writing a list poem that begins with:

Summering is . . .

Allow your images and imagination to flow without overthinking too much. Try writing in your favorite spot outside.

A Spell Poem:

If you are feeling a sense of enchantment, you could write a playful “Spell of Summer” poem using casual, free verse. Try describing the magic of summer in the natural world and include your hopes for the coming weeks.

Compassion, Ecotherapy, Nature & Healing, Parenting, Seasonal Rhythms, Self Care

Love, Not Luck

Stacey Hayes

On Honoring the Season You’re In

The first weeks of spring brought sickness to our family, reminding us of our vulnerability and resilience – caring for each other as best we could and leaning into gentle days, even as my inner voice said: You need to be doing this and that, we’re missing out, we’re getting behind and getting left behind!

When everything outside is expanding and bursting and blooming, here we were contracting and resting and recovering. It’s rare for my 11-year-old not to have endless energy and want to be out of doors. Being constantly curious and into all the things. But this illness really slowed him down.

So we sought out gentle activities that took me back to young motherhood when we explored the world through the eyes of a toddler. Taking us back to a not-so-distant era when finding four leaf clovers was enough.

Even though we were well beyond St. Patrick’s Day and on the other side of Easter, looking for four leaf clovers was good medicine. We wandered outside in search of thick green patches—in the yard and along the sides of the trails. Finding these rarities asked us to slow down, stoop down, and embrace slow time. It invited us to smell the newly green earth, taking note of rebirth on the smallest of levels.

Our quest was—quote, unquote—unsuccessful. That day we did not come away with the treasured four-leafer, but what we found was an unexpected gift. We spotted an unusual three leaf clover with heart-shaped leaves, either formed naturally that way or perfectly nibbled into hearts by a critter.

On the return home while cherishing the simple moment together, I whispered to my son, “I’d much rather have love than luck.” He wholeheartedly agreed.

Over the next few days, this slow rhythm became our healer.

Spring’s fullness — full blooms, full symphony, full nests — did not mirror our  personal season of convalescence, at least for a time.  For now, we’ll honor the contrast that will inevitably give way to busier spring days of school lessons, soccer games, chores, gardening, and travels.

Whatever season we may find ourselves in, may we be reminded of love’s gifts, that gentle days are sometimes needed, and that smelling a patch of fresh clover is good medicine.

Contemplative Practices, Ecotherapy, Seasonal Wisdom, Self Care, Writing

The Gentle Unfolding

Stacey Hayes

Rhythms that Sustain Us

Yesterday the wind whipped, and I just wanted to stay under my blanket. But the gusts kept calling for me—for me to discover the slow, steady unfolding in my own backyard. 

I noticed the bird song sustaining as sunbeams elongated in late afternoon.

I noticed hope emerging in those same songs as new fragments of nests were nestled in thickets.

I noticed quiet growth in the speckled young leaf of the trout lily, unearthing itself in the back woods.

I noticed the elm buds peeking out of their winter cocoons.

I noticed the warming of burgundy tree buds as they unfurled on maple branches.

I noticed this body of mine craving deep dreaming and deep rest — even as the earth softens and the slumbers of late winter loosen.

I noticed that in this season, rest and creation can be held together — in the song of the wren, in the cup of a half-formed nest, and in the nascent bud of a daffodil.

This quiet, steady growth in all its forms is a sustaining rhythm. Muted and understated in a culture where loud, showy, and “more” usually get all the attention.

The whispers of this in-between season offer an alternative.

Where less is more.

Where slow is sustaining.

Where silence speaks volumes.

Where kneeling to meet the small wonders underfoot is a posture of strength.

Where life is not hurried or pressured, but steady and measured.

Where we can lean into our own gentle unfolding, so beautifully modeled to us by the stirrings in our surroundings.

Where we make space in our days for stillness. For noticing.

And for following the call of the wind.

A Creative Invitation

A “Wonder Wander:” You may want to wander in your surroundings to notice what’s unfolding around you—and perhaps take photos to document your observations. 

Consider writing a poem or journal entry inspired by your “noticings,” weaving in some of these words that speak to you:

Quiet. Slow. Steady. Patient. Gentle. Trusting. Wisdom. Song.

Trout Lily in the Backwoods
Contemplative Practices, Sanctuary, Seasonal Wisdom, Sense of Place, Writing

Wintering Spirit: Poetry as Sanctuary

Stacey Hayes

As winter deepens, I offer an invitational poem and writing prompt to explore reading and writing poetry as a sanctuary for the spirit.

For me, reading poetry is a doorway into a sacred pause. And writing poetry is more about the process than the end product. It’s about expression, not expectation. Writing poetry is listening, tuning in, and offering reverence to what I notice and discover.

Now, on to the poem…

Wintering Spirit

By Stacey Hayes

Pause—to notice the cardinal resting in the giving holly,

sheltering herself from winter’s wind.

Listen to the muted hymn of the White-throated Sparrow,

rising from the backyard thickets.

Watch the squirrels chasing each other, protecting their stashes of seeds,

sustenance for today and the days to come.

Inhale—the crisp arctic air as the cold front blows from the north,

filling your lungs with the breath of life,

filling your spirit with clarity.

Open yourself to whatever may be unfolding in this moment,

both within you and around you.

Offer yourself compassion as winter ages

and as spirit settles into sacred stillness.

This is a variation of a poem I wrote at the turning of the new year. Reflecting back on it as February begins to unfold, I find that its truths still resonate. The poem calls forth the rhythms of the immediate landscape and reminds us of simple practices that help us tune into what our spirits may be longing for. It is a poem of place and a poem of presence.

Even if you don’t think of yourself as a writer or poetry person, consider creating a poem using the words below to begin each line—honoring your own observations and quiet wisdom.

Pause…

Listen…

Watch…

Inhale…

Open…

Offer…

May you welcome the solace of the natural world.

May you welcome the sanctuary of your own words.

Wintering Mountain Mint against a backdrop of sleet and snow—
January 2026, Durham, NC
Autumn Leaves, Belonging, Contemplative Practices, Ecospirituality, Nature & Me, Seasonal Rhythms, Sense of Place, Writing

A Spirited Walk

Stacey Hayes

A couple of months ago, I was at the airport waiting to board my flight. While chatting with a woman at the gate, I discovered we shared a destination—a national park. I asked, “Do you like to go hiking?” She replied with a smile spreading across her face, “I go on spirited walks.” I nodded with both deep understanding and curiosity. And her response has lingered with me since. 

Now, would you come along with me on this spirited walk in November? 

…………

The crow’s caw calls me onto the well-worn path, my heels wearing it even more. My middle-aged bones, like autumn, creakier than the year before. I take my spirit for a walk, a storied spirit whose chapters continue to unfold with the seasons.

The plip-plop of falling leaves carried by the morning breeze accompany the squirrel’s chatter (likely about me, unsure of my intentions). Dappled light settles onto my cheeks as the drone of machinery settles in the distance. The song of breeze, leaf, and squirrel rise into the thin mountain air.

My shadow follows alongside me—my companion of contrast, an expression of light’s play. The sun spins golden threads on the yellowing tree tops.

On the left, the sign says, “Wrong way, blind curve ahead” as the muffled sound of helicopter propellers sweep up the landscape. Yet, I am heartened by a tiny maple leaf that glimmers at me. Its quilt-like pattern of alternating rust and gold are understated but not unnoticed. Edges curled upward. Veins exposed. Tattered. Worn but not weary. The trees whisper their goodbyes to each leaf, branches baring as autumn ripens.

The leaf ushers me off-trail to a resting place. Often, a spirited walk invites me into stillness. This walk is slow and meandering. An intentional inhale as the trees exhale—an ancient rhythm of reciprocity. Of breath. Of life.

Refreshed, I saunter up, up, up, noticing the 1-2-1-2 cadence of my feet. My breath crescendos with each step. The forward motion senses the sacred rising up. Each pace searching for spirit of place, already known by the crow. The squirrel. The oak. The black bear. 

The late morning light welcomes me around the bend, and the path levels out. The curve is, in fact, not blind. It is illuminated with both light and song. 

Caw, caw.

Chick a dee dee dee.

It is the song of the American Crow. And the Carolina Chickadee. Along with the Red-bellied Woodpecker, the Golden-crowned Kinglet, and the Red-breasted Nuthatch. As birds carol together on the mountain top, spirit rises. 

I stop for awhile to listen. To feel. To be. Eventually, the internal pressure of time urges me to go. As I make the descent back, the glimmering maple leaf, the squirrel chatter, the sun’s golden threads, and avian carols are woven into me—into spirit.

an invitation

If you’re able, consider taking not just a walk but a spirited walk. It can be (and usually is for me) right in your neighborhood. This type of walk needs no companions, earbuds, or fitness trackers. It is simply you and the earth that holds you. It is about noticing, listening, and being curious. It seems so simple, but I believe we often forget the joy and peace of simple things. So, I encourage you to take a spirited walk and see where your path takes you on this November day.

Belonging, Sense of Place

On Spirit of Place & Belonging

Stacey Hayes

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about sense of place and belonging. How many of us feel disconnected or displaced from our own landscapes—perhaps because of the busyness of life, the distractions of our phones, and the placeless-ness that social media cultivates. All the things that may overshadow our sense of belonging—of feeling grounded and rooted, right where we are.

I believe a remedy to this disconnectedness is getting in touch with the spirit of place in the familiar landscape we inhabit each day. By reconnecting with spirit of place, we find comfort. We deepen belonging.

Spirit of place has been defined as “unique, distinctive and cherished aspects of a place.” (Wikipedia) The Latin term for spirit of place is Genius loci and was often represented by a small creature—a guardian animal or supernatural being (think fairies and elves). 

For me, spirit of place is most embodied by the flora and fauna that make up my particular ecosystem. And the “guardian animal” that stands out most when I think about my place is the Carolina Wren.

This spirited bird offers me companionship, and I have an intimate knowledge of its rhythms through the seasons. The wrens forage in the leaf litter in the fall and sleep in the roost houses we hung on our deck. In the summertime, the fledglings practice singing in our azaleas. They are messengers—alerting us and other animals when something is amiss. Even our house rabbit, Clover, becomes more vigilant when she hears their raspy hiss-hiss-hiss alarm call. 

And when I’m not at home and happen to hear the familiar sounds of the Carolina Wren, I feel as if I’ve been given a gift. I am heartened. I am connected back to my place. This bird is a thread that weaves me into my landscape, whether I’m home or far away.

Spirit of place can also be a shared sense, reinforcing family or community  identity and interconnectedness. The wrens are part of my sons’s day-to-day life as well. 

We’ve made a ritual of watching them from the window as they fly into their roosts, right on cue at sunset.

When he was a toddler he loved sticks, especially the heavy ones. One autumn he created a large stick pile in the woods behind our house—we lovingly named this structure Wren Cottage. (Personal place names also foster one’s sense of belonging, but that’s for another time.) This “cottage” has endured through the years, and the wrens forage, sing, and rest in this place of belonging.

You’ve likely noticed that the Carolina Wren (or at least my primitive sketch of it) is the logo for Soulful Seasons. In the most practical sense a logo is a symbol. Symbols can help us make meaning of the world around us and express what we cherish. They do not reduce or diminish, but expand and enhance. This little bird is a poignant symbol for my spirit of place. A feathered song. A winged guardian.

an invitation

Autumn is a beautiful time to get in touch with the spirit of your landscape.

What embodies spirit of place for you? 

Reflect on what you feel particularly connected to in your place. What natural attachment do you have that makes home feel like home?

It may be a bird, or perhaps it’s a perennial flower that you watch through the seasons, or a deciduous tree in your front yard, or a little creek that meanders through your neighborhood.

Or perhaps it’s something atmospheric like the way the fog shrouds the morning. Or the rhythm of rain pitter-pattering on your roof. Or  the way the full moon illuminates your bedroom window. 

Maybe it’s a geological element such as a mossy rock that’s been grounding your place years and years before you called it home.

And if you don’t feel a sense of attachment or belonging where you happen to be right now, think about how attuning to spirit of place may help cultivate that for you. Spend time there just observing, offering your presence. As a dear family member says, “See what you can see.”

Once you’ve thought about spirit of place where you live, you may feel called to find expression for it—such as creating an image, taking a photo, writing a poem, or sharing a story about this special connection.

Most importantly, may we all remember that we, too, are part of spirit of place.

“We are wild creatures still, at heart, and if we listen to our hearts we will remember how to listen to the song of the fierce-beaked, wild-winged little wren who, hopping from tree to stump, shows us the way home.” 

~ Sharon Blackie

Contemplative Practices, Seasonal Rhythms, Writing

Glimmers for September

Stacey Hayes

Here we are as summer wanes. Last September I wrote about this being a month of transitions. And as seasonal rhythms remind us — with their reassuring and predictable patterns — this theme has emerged again. 

Transition times are an opportunity to honor and cherish the gifts of the passing season as we anticipate the graces to come. Paging back through my journal, I note the gifts of summer—the first sighting of fireflies, the increased activity of Eastern Cottontails, and the pollinators  in full force, especially on the mountain mint and bee balm. I also noted how summer calls my spirit both to play and deep rest.

These were documented in what I call a list of “noticings.” My personality by nature longs for lists—metaphorical containers that hold “to dos,” groceries to be purchased, homeschool tasks, and books to check out from the library. These practical lists help me to feel not only organized but rooted. I feel sort of lost without them.

The most nourishing type of list for me, though, is one that records the moments that stand out in both my inner and outer landscapes. These “glimmers” are simple moments of joy and peace that I encounter in the small wonders around (and within) me. My journal is filled with these. When I cannot muster the creative energy or time to write proper prose, I start with a list. 

This practice stirs my creativity and deepens my appreciation for the glimmers in day-to-day life. My lists of “noticings” have become a form of meditation and contemplative practice. They are collections of observations, wonder, and insights that I can return to again and again. It is a gift to page back through my journals and be reminded of glimmers from previous seasons and years.

My most recent list includes:

~ The hummingbird has been spending more time at the feeder preparing for fall migration.

~ Subtle yellow hues on the elm tree

~ Waning daylight

~ Birds still molting (Carolina wren is missing a tail feather)

~ Goldenrod: a symbol of the seasonal transition as it leans into autumn, offering its beauty and sustenance. A bridge between seasons. A keystone species.

~ I am slowly coming out of a fallow creative season. A necessary time of waiting and listening to hear what rises and unfolds.

These lists have no rules; there are no “to do’s.” They are unassuming. They are whatever is needed in the moment.

When woven together, these life-giving lists tell a story of how my inner and outer landscapes intertwine. They become more than the sum of their parts—they become a form of wholeness.

So when your well fills dry or you are longing for a sacred pause, consider making a list of  “noticings.” Over time you may notice patterns or themes emerge. You will also become more in tune with subtle shifts in the seasons—and how those shifts are reflected within you.


Goldenrod 
Scientific name: Solidago
(Latin for solidus, “to make whole”)
Contemplative Practices, Ecotherapy, Seasonal Rhythms, Self Care

Bee Balm for the Soul

Stacey Hayes

I’ve been watching the bee balm grow in a pot on our deck over the past few weeks. It’s attracted bees and the resident hummingbirds. Observing the plant has become a meditation, a slow down moment. It encourages mindful attention that stills my soul.

This plant meditation has evolved into a musing on balms. Just thinking about and saying the word balm feels soothing. I relish the richness and history inherent in words through studying their etymology. And for balm I discovered:  “any aromatic preparation used in healing wounds or soothing pain, or as a perfume or in anointing.” (14th C, etymology.com)

Anointing. A word I’ve heard often in past chapters of life but can’t exactly pin down. My research uncovered that anointing has three purposes – “health and comfort, as a token of honor, and as a symbol of consecration.” (Wikipedia)

Imagine it. A balm gently placed on your head by a loving soul to heal. To comfort. To honor. To make sacred.

Bee balm (Monarda) is used ceremonially, medicinally, and for culinary purposes by some Indigenous cultures. Part of the mint family, it’s native to North America. Bee balm is a salve for the skin and an antiseptic.  It’s used as a spice and for tea. And it has properties of healing, soothing, and purifying.

Bee balm is a balm for my local habitat. It calls out to the bees, the moths, the butterflies, and the hummingbirds.

It calls out to me. 

Amidst a micro season of minor unfortunate personal events, including a flat tire on a hot day, a pet emergency, and garden variety decision fatigue (yes, that’s a real thing), I was in need of a balm. My personal ecosystem was in disequilibrium, and a metaphorical balm could bring back the balance.

I think many of us lose sight of what our balm is. Of our particular medicines—those people, places, and practices that support us. For me, I needed to remove myself from the “marketplace.” As a highly sensitive person, I had become overstimulated. Or more colloquially—frazzled. Fortunately, I recognized my balm was simple: space and quiet.

I needed less. I needed to sit and watch the bee balm.

A beautiful soul in one of my workshops shared that when she is in nature she listens for the stories and the medicines. As we enter a seasonal transition from spring to summer, I invite you to listen for your medicines. I invite you to name and claim the balms that calm you. Ground you. And uplift your spirit during times of overwhelm, over choice, or over stimulation.

invitations

Ponder the practices, the people, and the places that feel like a balm to you. Also consider what particular rhythms of the season can support you. Just as bee balm has its own blooming season, this season has specific gifts that can hold, heal, and offer hope to your body and spirit.

Seasonal gifts I’ve noticed include: the first fireflies, fledgling birds clumsily following their parents around, the flora in bloom, balmy breezes, the extension of daylight, and the call to slow down.

Name them.

Claim them.

Seek their stories.

Find your medicines. 

You may want to identify a plant that is local to your area and learn more about its stories, symbolism, and traditional uses. Ask this living being to be an inspiration for you as you embrace your own balms. If this plant is nearby, take time to be with it. Offer your presence. Notice its leaves and petals if it has them. Take note of what comes to visit it.

I sat with the bee balm for a few minutes, and three types of bees and a hummingbird moth stopped by. The blooms are a bit ragged after several days of rain…but the bees don’t mind.