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
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.
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.
The past few weeks, I’ve noticed the process of molting in the bird world. The Cardinal shedding his head feathers. The Carolina Wren hopping around without a tail feather. And all sorts of fledglings born earlier this summer growing in their adult feathers.
Stubby. Shaggy. Raggedy.
These are not the first words that usually come to mind when thinking about songbirds. They look awkward and not quite like themselves, yet, they are exactly what they need to be in this season. They are perfectly imperfect.
Molting is a process they can’t control. It’s governed by circadian rhythms, the changing light, and the turning of seasons. Molting is a season of vulnerability for birds. Feathers are used not only for flight but for camouflage, insulation, sun protection, swimming, and making sounds. Birds take care as best they can during this time—conserving their energy to grow new feathers, eating more protein, and seeking shelter. Though arduous, molting is a regenerative natural rhythm that prepares birds for what’s to come—be it migration or colder weather.
Molt stems from the Old English mutian meaning to change.
I often think of September as an in-between season. A time of change and transition. Routines and rhythms begin to shift. Our minds, hearts, and bodies begin to adapt to seasonal changes. As my own feathers feel a bit weathered and worn, I’m reminded that letting go of what no longer resonates with my values or priorities makes space for new growth and opportunities. Midlife (or whatever life season you may be in) is an opportune time to embrace the wisdom embodied in cycles of release and renewal — as autumn will soon remind us in a myriad of ways.
In the meantime, we can take our cues from birds and nourish ourselves in body and spirit during times of transition. Making space to rest and restore, releasing what no longer serves us. Because molting, like most seasonal rhythms, can guide us and point us toward hope.
“I watch the bald Cardinals feeding their fledglings, and I know they feel awful. I remind myself of what I cannot remind them–that raggedness is just the first step toward a new season of flight.”
~ Margaret Renkl, The Comfort of Crows
for reflection
You may want to use these questions as writing prompts for journaling or perhaps just to ponder while watching birds.
~ How may I meet my own “molting” process with compassion, gentleness, and patience?
~ What wisdom may I discover in cycles of release and renewal?
ways to support molting and migrating birds
~ Offer protein-rich foods such as seeds and suet.
~ Hang roost houses as the nights become cooler.
~ Turn off unnecessary lights, especially between 10pm-6am as these can disorient birds migrating at night.
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.
It was a crisp morning when I declared to my husband and son, “I really want to reconnect with nature today.” Underneath this longing was a desire to reconnect with myself.
Lately I had fallen into a familiar pattern of overanalyzing—too much research and Googling, too much social media scrolling, and reading too many books on all the things. The more information I consumed, the less clarity and inspiration I found.
That morning I followed my intuition and footsteps, which led me on a path to an antidote. Enchantment. As I ventured into the woods, I unexpectedly found a living field guide of fungi on the forest floor at a local park. At every turn there was novelty and delight. All sorts of mushrooms burst forth from earth’s soulful soil. An autumn rainbow of oranges, browns, reds, and whites peeped out from a bed of pine straw.
I took photos as I often do as a contemplative practice, receiving these images as a gift. Stooping down to get close, I changed perspective. And at ground level I inhaled the earthy scents created by the decay and regeneration process. I was amazed at nature’s art work in these tiny wonders. The colors. The textures. The designs. And I was reminded of the mystery and enchantment that lies beneath as fungal networks stretch out in vast webs. The mycelia of these mushrooms intertwine with tree roots to send nutrients and water to trees in a spirit of reciprocity.
What about this experience enchanted me? There was an element of surprise as I discovered secrets of the autumn forest. It felt pure. Just me and nature. It was a sensory feast that activated my sense of wonder and creativity. And I felt rooted as I connected to beauty and seasonal rhythms.
Words often associated with enchantment include delight, wonder, and magic. It has etymological roots in the Old French encantement meaning “magical spell; song, chorus.” And it is fitting that so many fairy tales take place in the woods—a landscape teeming with life and possibility. A setting to get lost and be found. By opening to nature’s song, it cast its spell on me. And I discovered my own notes.
Enchantment is unique to everyone. For me it is cozy and intimate, yet expansive. It glimmers and sparkles. It is both meaningful and playful. Novel and familiar. Enchantment is a dewy spiderweb. A bunny lounging in a patch of clover. A snail nibbling on a mushroom. A simmering pot of soup. A wren’s morning song. A child’s kiss.
I believe enchantment is an alchemy of curiosity, connection, and imagination. These gifts are available to us on a daily basis if we slow down enough to attune to ourselves and the world around us. And it is a practice that can be nurtured and cultivated. A dose of enchantment may just be what’s needed to soothe what ails us.
For Reflection
Do you remember the last time you felt a sense of enchantment? Was it unexpected or did you seek it out?
Is there a person in your life (now or from your past) who embraces an enchanted way of being that inspires you? One who seeks out wonder in simplicity, the every day, or the small things?
You may want to take a moment to explore your own recipe for enchantment.
Write “Enchantment is…” at the top of a blank page and then write freely without overthinking. It could be in the form of a list, notes, a poem, or prose. Ponder what delights the senses. Tickles the imagination. Warms the heart. And creates a sense of belonging. You may want to incorporate visuals such as colors that evoke enchantment in you or a sketch that symbolizes enchantment.
Consider venturing outside to discover a few special ingredients as I did that October morning.
Summer is a season of fullness. It invites both play and rest. Creation and incubation. Exploration and retreat. Wildness and cultivation. Journeys and homecomings. It’s a season expansive enough to hold all of these ebbing and flowing rhythms. I’ve noticed that it gets very quiet in our yard in the afternoon. Birds, bunnies, and squirrels honor the need to forage and play in the cooler hours, while seeking shade and stillness in the heat of mid-day. They tune into their innate wisdom, following their summer rhythms and retreating as a form of self care.
In the spirit of rhythms and self care, I have been contemplating a seasonal sanctuary—a place inspired by wisdom from the natural world and our wisdom within. A space that honors the rhythms of this season as well as our needs and desires. A haven that restores the body. And a harbor of inner hospitality that sustains the heart. This may be an actual location or an imaginary, metaphorical space. Or perhaps a combination of both.
When I envision my summer sanctuary, there is flowing water, shade trees, and the softness of the evening as the sun rests on the horizon. There is respite from suburban noise. There are life giving books, a blank journal, and my favorite pen. A bowl of freshly picked blueberries is close at hand. In this dwelling, I savor the quiet and listen to the voice within. Wildflowers grow freely here, bordering this half-real, half-imagined sanctum of wild peace.
As you ponder your summer sanctuary consider what nourishes body and spirit as well as your natural rhythms. You may want to use the prompts below to explore these ideas through writing or imagery such as a collage, sketch, or watercolor.
A Summer Sanctuary
I imagine . . . (a place in nature, a landscape, or an imaginary space)
With scents of . . .
Sounds of . . .
Textures of . . .
Surrounded by . . .
I am nourished in this space by . . .
A place where I . . .
This season invites . . .
My sanctuary welcomes . . .
My hope is that you will seek out restorative places, find pockets of sanctuary throughout your day, and honor the ebbs and flows as you embrace all the hues of summer.
May This Be a Place by Stacey M. Hayes
May this be a place of respite when you are weary, Inspiration when you are stuck, Calm when there is chaos. A place of quenching coolness and inner warmth. A space to reflect, dream, and create. May you find peace and delight here. May this be a place of embrace that lovingly holds all that you are.
