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:
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
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.
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”)
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.
Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.” ~ E.B. White
I am an ordinary wonder seeker. I look for wonder out the window, in the yard, and on walks. Glancing out our front door last week, I spotted an unlikely visitor—a journeying monarch butterfly. This pilgrim found the butterfly weed we planted a few years ago – its buds ripening but not yet in bloom.
The monarch landed on each milkweed plant for a few seconds, drawn to them like bees to nectar. (Monarchs lay their eggs on milkweed.) It rode the breeze encircling the front yard, then vanished in a matter of minutes. A fleeting moment that easily could have been missed. An unexpected wonder on an ordinary day.
I got curious…Where did this butterfly’s journey originate? Where was it headed? And how in the world did it find this small patch of butterfly weed in our yard?
Later that afternoon, I went outside to look for eggs on the plant. Expecting (and hoping) to find eggs, I encountered another wonder – a small monarch caterpillar feasting on the leaves. Stooping down to watch something so small made the moment all the more wondrous. In its diminutiveness, I found expansiveness.
Wonder begets wonder. How long has the caterpillar been there? When were those eggs laid?
The monarch’s multigenerational migration is no small wonder. From Mexico to Canada in the spring, then back to Mexico to their wintering grounds, it can take up to four generations to make a one-way journey.
Like this passing monarch, many wonders are ephemeral. Wonder is sometimes about being in the right place at the right time. But if we practice a posture of expectancy, wonder is always under our noses, all around us. It can be the lens through which we see. A lens of openness, curiosity, and receptivity.
Wonder is a nod to the sacred in the every day. The budding perennial, the trill of the Towhee’s spring song, the veins in a heart-shaped leaf, the gradients of color in a small stone. The shapeshifting cloud above us. In a posture of wonder, we figuratively kneel offering our fullness to the fullness of what we are attending to.
Wonder is a point of connection – a meeting place of our inner and outer landscapes. In stepping outside and outside of ourselves, we often can be found.
Wonder is both a noun (as in a cause of astonishment, a marvel, a miracle) and a verb (as in to be curious about). In This is How a Robin Drinks, Joanna Brichetto reminds us that “Both kinds of wonder lead to connect, which leads to love, which leads to protect.”
The butterfly weed will soon be wearing bright orange hats. We are drawn to flowers for their beauty, but the greatest wonder of this flora is that of host. Its offering of sustenance. Its offering of a birthplace. Its offering of a temporary home. It is a micro ecosystem made for a pilgrimage—full of wonder.
Invitation: Giving Voice to Wonder
This stanza from Mary Oliver’s poem Sometimes is often quoted:
“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
Reflect on each line from Oliver’s “instructions” and journal about what each means for you.
~ Pay attention: In what ways are you particularly gifted to pay attention? Do you easily pick up on smells? Are you a keen observer of fine details? Do you often notice connections among things? Are you drawn to expansive landscapes such as the sky?
~ Be astonished: What often astonishes you or captures your attention? What calls you into a holy pause? How can you foster moments of wonder?
~ Tell about it: Be open to some of the special ways you can share about the wonder you encounter. Perhaps through photos, a painting, writing, or poetry? Maybe sharing in meaningful conversations or storytelling? Or through education?
If you’ve been following my work for awhile, you’ve likely noticed that “small wonders” is a theme I return to again and again. The simple gifts of the natural world never cease to delight. I hope to focus on these life giving gifts during this traditionally busy month. To slow down and reflect amidst a time of preparation—both for the advent of winter and Christmas. Alongside my “to do” lists, the practice of embracing nature’s simple gifts guides and grounds me. And fosters a sense of wonder.
As the trees are nearly bare, it may seem challenging to find small wonders in nature. But with a little attention and close observation in our backyards and local surroundings, they can be discovered. The colder, darker season offers many gifts—ripe holly berries, fragrant evergreens, a patch of soft moss, sparkling Jack Frost, and wintering birds.
Pictured above are the blue “berries” of the Eastern Red Cedar, a native juniper tree. The festive berries are actually small cones—tiny packages with nutritious seeds inside. As an important winter food source, they fill the bellies of beloved birds and remind us that each season provides sustenance for body and spirit.
May nature’s simple gifts nourish you in the days to come.
I’ve been hearing the distinct and familiar whistle from the woods telling me it’s November. The notes of the white-throated sparrow saying, “I am here.” And I’m grateful this migrant bird has returned safely to its wintering home.
Piercing through the drone of leaf blowers, the haunting tune mirrors fall’s spirit of letting go. The leaves drop, dancing as though choreographed to the sparrow’s song.
The song invites me to pause. To savor.
Meanwhile, societal cues attempt to fast forward me to the next holiday, bypassing this month of understated beauty. November can easily be overlooked. But I can choose to take cues from nature’s rhythms—the arrival of migrating birds (and their songs). The half-bare, half-leaved elm outside my window. Wispy, white seeds traveling with the autumn wind. The muted light of dusk, which falls earlier each day.
In this month of things dying back, there is a nourishing feast for the senses waiting to be savored. Savoring can be thought of as deep appreciation. The Old French savorer “to taste, to breathe in; to appreciate, care for” (etymology.com) sums up this contemplative practice. The natural world is the perfect place to do this.
As we slow down, we notice, we sense, we feel, and we become more appreciative. We honor the details in our visual landscapes. And the songs of our aural landscapes. Savoring points us to the sacred in the ordinary, and we begin to walk in beauty.
In this shifting landscape—transforming before me, moment to moment—the soulful notes of the sparrow rise up above the chaos. This little bird enchants. It sings: “I am home. We are here together.” And I savor each refrain.
Seasonal Invitations ~ What autumn song do you hear? You may want to go outside for a few minutes and make a list of all nature’s sounds that you notice. Or perhaps make a sound map.
~ What in natural world this time of year can remind you to take a micro pause—to savor the small wonders around you?
~ Embracing micro seasons is another way to savor natural rhythms. Read more here.
A dear friend recently shared how late summer can feel stagnant and uninspiring. This is a person who thrives in new scenery and vast landscapes. I reminded him that a possible antidote is to connect with the wonder and subtle changes happening right under our noses—in our own habitats.
It’s human nature to become desensitized to the things we see every day and to forget to appreciate the life teeming in our backyards. The framework of micro seasons can help us rediscover the small wonders and micro changes unfolding before us. The tiniest mushroom that wasn’t there yesterday. The sunflower that has finally opened after a season of growth. The figs that have ripened after an abundance of rain and that are being enjoyed by a host of critters. The poke berry that’s turned from green to burgundy.
Micro seasons are an alternative way of measuring time. Of deepening our seasonal wisdom. Micro seasons celebrate life cycles and the transient nature of things. They also offer comfort and reassurance in seasonal patterns and predictable rhythms. They are an opportunity to honor the sacred in the familiar.
The ancient Japanese calendar had 72 micro seasons lasting approximately five days each. Here they are for August:
August 3-7: Great rains sometimes fall
August 8-12: Cool winds blow
August 13-17: Evening cicadas sing
August 18-22: Thick fog descends
August 23-27: Cotton flowers open
But of course our own micro seasons will be unique depending on our habitats and what captures our attention. This practice can be a form of observation, reflection, and devotion. As I look back on the micro seasons I’ve experienced in past weeks — the spring trout lilies, the periodical cicadas, the June fireflies, the wildflowers of July — my sense of gratitude swells. These moments are also touchstones to what was going on in my life at that time. Micro seasons are mileposts on the inward and outward journey as we mark the passage of time in relationship to the natural world.
an invitation
You may want to embrace the practice of micro seasons as a form of self-care that offers solace, wisdom, and wonder.
How do you identify a micro season?
You begin by noticing. By being curious.
By observing your local habitat — on walks, while looking out your window, or spending time in your yard or neighborhood.
As you slow down, notice what shimmers and shines for you.
What captures your attention, senses, and imagination?
What is a key moment or pattern being revealed in the natural world this week?
What is delighting you?
What do you want to learn more about?
These are the questions that guide your discovery of a micro season. Then, once you’ve identified one, you may want to document it in a way that is meaningful for you—a short description, a series of photos, a drawing, a journal entry, or a conversation.
a blessing
May the micro seasons you experience help you to behold the gifts offered each day. May cultivating this practice foster deep seeing, deep feeling, and deep expression as we honor the unfolding seasons—day after day, week after week.
I often lie half awake at dawn, listening to the chorus outside my window. These are sounds of comfort, reassurance, and beauty. My heart is grateful for each and every feathered being with both their individual signature voices and their collective symphony. Spring is undeniably a musical season. Birdsong crescendos as we approach the fullness of nesting season. And the dawn chorus heralds our own spring awakenings.
Birdsong awakens me to the gift of listening and the gift of being heard.
My son recently made a “soundscape map.” With a circle representing himself in the middle of the page, he sat outside and listened. First, he noticed the wind rustling through pine needles and the young leaves on the deciduous trees. Squiggly lines were drawn in the upper right of the page to denote wind. The drone of construction vehicles in the distance was marked in the bottom left corner by jagged lines. After listening more deeply, he enthusiastically drew circles around and around his own inner circle announcing, “The birds are singing all around me.”
Birdsong can easily become background noise that we are unaware of or desensitized to. Or, it may be muffled by soundproof walls, noise pollution, or our own racing thoughts. Not to mention that many songbird populations are declining, along with their songs. For birds, singing is purposeful work—to claim and defend their territories and to attract mates with hopes of continuing their songs.
Both human experience and scientific research tell us that listening to birdsong, especially in your local habitat, calms the nervous system. We are grounded in our senses while becoming more connected to the natural world. We become more rooted to our local landscapes as we cultivate a sense of belonging. When I hear the familiar chewy, chewy, chewy of the Carolina Wren perched on the deck post, the distinctively spring purty, purty, purty of the Northern Cardinal in the tree branches, and the trilled drink your tea! of the Towhee from the underbrush of the azaleas, I know I am home.
Hearing is a sense. Listening is a matter of attention.
I’ve noticed that there are different qualities of my own listening in the span of an hour. As a trained therapist and someone with high sensitivity, I at times offer an empathetic ear, which requires deep, close listening. There is a quiet listening when attuning to my inner voice and intuition. And there is often a distracted brand of listening when I am multitasking, tired, or overstimulated.
Attuning to birdsong can be a simple, contemplative practice that helps us to slow down, be present, and offer our attention with ease. When I listen to birds, I attend without strain or striving. I am both energized and relaxed simultaneously. Tuning into birdsong also helps me to be more attuned to seasonal rhythms as I note how those songs change throughout the weeks, months, and seasons. I have been savoring the whistling song of the White Throated Sparrow who has wintered here— knowing it will migrate north any day now for nesting season. By listening, we honor the wonders around us.
an invitation
My invitation this month is simple: to listen. To let the expansive songs of our feathered friends call out to you. Soothe you. And move you. Allow their songs to embrace you as they encircled my son on that windy spring morning.
