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
As winter releases and spring unfolds, we enter an undeniably poetic season. Small wonders are emerging, and the landscape will dramatically shift over the coming weeks. The compact form of a poem can capture seasonal transitions, tiny wonders, sweeping landscapes, and everything in-between. They help us to pause. To remember. To honor.
I admit poetry hasn’t always been the type of writing I most turn to. But lately, the poetic form has opened up streams of compassion and expression within me. I find myself reaching for a little book of poems — an anthology filled with wonder — to pause and savor. I read poetry as both solace and inspiration. Not surprisingly, reading poetry has been proven to calm the nervous system and promote an overall sense of well-being. I’ve come to embrace poetry as a contemplative practice, and in this transitional season, I offer this poem.
On the Precipice of Spring
The brown thrasher plucks
a twig from the dense thicket.
A gesture of intention.
Then a subtle song of hope—
a rite to mark the passing
of a season and the
unfolding of another.
My eyes lock in wonder.
Ancestral wisdom,
seasonal rhythms
hold us, shape us,
soften us
as the wintered earth
softens into spring.
~ Stacey Hayes
I wrote this after watching two thrashers gather nest materials from the holly bush beside our front porch. Thrashers are notably shy, and I was able to witness this moment quietly from a window. I recently learned that they can sing over 1,000 songs, and like the mockingbird, they imitate other bird songs.
Poetic Invitations
~ Allow yourself to pause by savoring a poem. Let the words wash over you, soothe you, awaken you, inspire you.
~ Consider writing a poem to honor the passing season of winter — to honor its gifts and graces.
~ Find a poem that resonates with you and invite it to spark your writing. For example, you may want to choose a line from it to use as the first line of your poem.
Poets who Inspire
Deeply connected to the natural world, these two poets write with compassion and speak to me in this season of my life:
The trout lilies have emerged—sprinkled like confetti on the forest floor behind our home. These spring ephemerals are poetic wonders that symbolize hope and resilience for me. Read more about them here.
The start of February has been filled with unpredictable rhythms. This time of year weather can be variable, and lately it’s been two days of winter followed by two days of spring. While I embrace the warmer days, I’ve found them to be a bit disorienting. I’m reminded that weather can influence our moods and serve as a metaphor for many things—our shifting inner landscapes, the unpredictability of our daily lives, and the changes in the world around us.
Some ancient wisdom suggests widening your lens during times of uncertainty. To broaden your perspective. And in some seasons, I find this helpful. But in this particular month, reassurance is found through my narrow lens. By zooming in on the particulars.
By taking in the little hopes all around me.
What is true and beautiful and hopeful right here? In this place? In this moment?
Today it was the ripening buds on the sprawling elm tree, hovering over the front yard in a hug. And the young daffodil shoots pushing through the ground in the woods behind our house. Just like last February. The green anole that emerged to sun on this unseasonably warm day—a sign of things to come. And the gathering of brown birds—the Carolina Wren, the white-throated sparrow, and the Hermit thrush—foraging harmoniously in the side yard.
When the wider landscape feels overwhelming, I tether myself to the particulars. By shifting our attention, we find little hopes everywhere.
“…beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.” ~ Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
a contemplative practice
Allow yourself a few moments to focus on the natural world—in your yard, out your window, on a walk in your neighborhood. Slow down enough to notice some of the particulars around you. You may want to photograph these or jot down what you noticed. When you document the particulars in images or words, they can be revisited over time and through the seasons — marking the moments and memories that bring us hope, gratitude, and joy.
How may nature’s particulars offer you hope?
In what ways do they ground you?
If you are deep in snow, ice, or other wintry weather, you may want to read last month’s post on Weathering Winter.
A month ago, these elm tree buds were covered in ice. Now they are ripening and bursting—showing hints of the flowers to come. Elm trees form flowers before they get their leaves.
I live in North Carolina where winters are chilly but rarely white. They are gentler than in more northerly parts of the world. Yet still, I find myself turning inward, seeking cozy, and nourishing my body with healthful and fat-filled foods— like the Eastern cottontail rabbits who shelter in dense thickets around our shed. Like the squirrels who curl their tails on their backs like blankets. And like the songbirds who feast in the backyard.
During an unusual cold snap this past week, I worried about the birds as night temperatures dipped into the 20s. To my relief, the next morning they sang their subtle winter songs and visited our feeders as usual. Still here.
Their resilience offered reassurance, and I was reminded of my own capacity to endure. Birds have adapted to survive the cold—storing more fat, fluffing out their downy feathers, sometimes huddling together in roost houses, and shivering to create warmth. Their tiny bodies are adept at thermal regulation.
Winter exposes our vulnerabilities.
Winter reveals beauty and resilience.
The cold bareness of winter seems to expose our vulnerabilities—my increasingly creaky joints. My too-cold toes. My dry, oft cracked skin. My need for deep rest. And my occasional resistance to sitting with silence and stillness.
The bareness of winter also reveals beauty. The simple forms of the natural world, the silhouettes of trees. The peace inherent in the stillness. The beauty in our need for warmth, community, and communion with animals.
How may we endure a season of deep winter?
By embracing its cold beauty, call to rest, and invitation to gather warmth wherever it may be found. We can lean into our own adaptations taking cues from the wildlife around us, don our coziest socks, and allow the clarity of wintry air to fill our bodies and spirits. And as Anna Brones encourages us, we can “stare up and remind ourselves that in between the dark silhouettes of bare winter branches, there is so much light that shines through.”
For Reflection ~ What does “weathering winter” mean for you?
~ What beauty is revealed in the bareness of the season—the silhouettes of deciduous trees, the sparse landscapes?
~ How can you embrace your vulnerabilities with compassion, while gathering support and comfort for them?
A Wellness Practice
Go outside for a walk in the natural world (or look out your window). Be open to wonder and see what captures your attention. You may want to take a photo or write a few words of gratitude for the beauty you encounter. Embrace the alchemy of movement, wintry fresh air, and the bare trees of this quiet season.
A Quote to Inspire Your Creative or Writing Practice
“All winter long the brown bud will sleep. While the cold crow calls into the gray sky, while the wet leaves blacken and begin their return to earth, the brown bud is waiting for its true self to unfold; a beginning that in sleep has already begun.”
Every autumn in the woods behind our house, the hickory nuts gather in abundance. And year after year, the hearts hidden inside these nuts—the inner sanctums—continue to capture my sense of wonder. These tiny, natural treasures delight me. But this season, they take on new meaning.
In a time when we can feel overwhelmed by all that’s going on in the world, these small wonders are a comforting reminder that there is compassion all around us and within us. In a season when so many are suffering, these gifts on the forest floor speak to me of micro acts of compassion.
The hickory tree made its offering of sustenance to the creatures below—squirrels, deer, raccoons, o’possums. What’s left behind in the nuts, the inner hearts, feels like an offering to me both in their beauty and symbolism. And as the hulls decompose, they nourish the soil and the tree. The cycle of compassion is completed and continues, guided by seasonal rhythms.
The hearts of these nuts remind me that my small offerings matter. The fresh water in the birdbath. The homemade nectar in the feeder for the migrating hummingbirds. The breath prayer as I turn off unnecessary lights at night—with hopes of helping migrant birds find their way home. The food and cleaning supplies we gathered to help western North Carolina in the devastating aftermath of Hurricane Helene.
Compassion embodies acts of service and spirit as we tenderly enter into another’s need or suffering. And there is expansiveness in our small offerings. Micro compassion is a remedy for overwhelm as we do our best to lighten the collective burden.
When your heart feels heavy, when your soul feels led, consider: What micro act of compassion can I extend to another being? What small offering can I make?
A prayer? A poem? A calm presence? Practical assistance?
It’s okay to choose small. It’s okay for your offering to be imperfect. Together our individual acts of micro compassion gather in abundance, like the hickory hearts on the forest floor.
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.
It started as a distant drone. Then, I noticed them—the highly anticipated cicadas—clinging to a pine tree on a walk. Many lying still and stunned, newly hatched from their exoskeletons on our neighborhood trails. Over the next few days, my walks took on a new purpose as I moved them off the trail and out of harm’s way from runners and cyclists.
Their exoskeletons decorated fences, the undersides of leaves, birdhouses, and just about anything else they could cling to. By week’s end they fluttered among the tree canopies. My son and I clapped in celebration as the wings of a hatched cicada took to the treetops.
Last month the celestial stage was graced with a solar eclipse. This month the terrestrial stage debuts a historic emergence of two broods of periodical cicadas. (Annual cicadas hatch every year. These periodical cicadas live as nymphs underground for 13-17 years).
As these marvels of nature rose from the ground, I noticed a variety of feelings rising in me. There was wonderment, excitement, a sense of protection. There was also dread, fear, and irritation as I anticipated the imminent noise they would make. The relative peace and quiet of my deck would soon be overcome with a constant drone of two layers of sound—the grinding of annual cicadas and the siren-like rattling of the periodical cicadas. Females clicking their wings; males creating vibrations in their abdomens. The spring bird song that brought delight in recent weeks would be partially eclipsed.
Was I feeling ambivalence? Or just a bag of mixed feelings? After some reflection, I was able to name my experience as awe. Awe. Awesome. Awful. All of these words swirled around in my consciousness.
Awe is usually considered a positive emotion but is an alchemy of many emotions—amazement, wonder, surprise, reverence, and fear. Awe is derived from the Old English egemeaning “terror, dread.” Awe is expansive as we hold multiple feelings at once. It moves us to reflect on the world and truths beyond ourselves.
The range of emotions we experience on a daily basis can be deep and wide. And we can have contradictory feelings simultaneously. Cicadas can be both amazing and annoying at the same time. But when approached with compassion and curiosity, they are in fact awe-inspiring.
Awe:
an emotion variously combining dread, veneration, and wonder inspired by authority or by the sacred or sublime. (Merriam Webster)
Awe keeps the company of other complex emotions, including envy, guilt, and hope. These combine at least two basic emotions (such as happiness, sadness, and anger) and require self-reflection. We can also meet these complex emotions with compassion and curiosity. Offering gentleness to ourselves as we ponder the uncertainties, ask the questions, seek answers, and discover more mystery. We may also offer gratitude for the depth of emotions that we experience as human beings as well as for the things that evoke awe.
life cycles ~ abundance ~ metamorphosis
Nature is a great teacher. And this season of cicadas teaches me about awe and beyond as my inner and outer landscapes continue to intermingle. I am in awe of these periodical cicadas as they embody the passage of time and longer cyclical rhythms. For 13 and 17 years, they co-existed in my local habitat underground, feeding on the sap in tree roots. They embody abundance as they emerge en masse—an offering of nourishment to a variety of wildlife. The bluebird hatchlings in the nest box in our front yard. The squirrel who loves to drink from our birdbath and sun on our deck.
Like many winged creatures, cicadas embody the miracle of metamorphosis, reminding me of the transformations I’ve experienced through my life stages. I’ve felt as if I’ve shed my own exoskeleton of sorts and emerged stunned with new wings multiple times. Particularly as a newlywed, then through profound grief, new motherhood, and now in mid-life. My metamorphoses will continue as will the life cycles of cicadas.
In the meantime, the birds continue to sing. The baby bunnies continue to munch on clover in the side yard. The dragonflies continue to dart around in search of mosquitoes. And for this season, I will retreat inside more where it’s a bit quieter and continue to rescue newly hatched cicadas on my daily walks.
an invitation
You may want to reflect on moments in your life when you’ve felt awe. Try to name the myriad of feelings you experienced.
Perhaps you’d like to extend gratitude for these moments and for the depth and breadth of emotions you possess.
You may be led to express these reflections in the form of a poem, a journal entry, or blessing for the experiences that evoked awe in you.
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.
