Category: Sense of Place

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