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.
This past week the pine pollen dusted the neighborhood. It was a yellow backdrop to little helicopters raining everywhere. These green and pink winged wonders whirled and swirled off the maple tree in the front yard. Officially called samaras, they are designed to sow. To move with the wind. To scatter seeds of hope and possibility.
By nature I am usually contemplative and introspective, but spring brings out an active and outward energy in me. Spring calls me to my outer landscape to watch the greening of the woods, the emergence of bees, the shifting energy of birds into a drive to nest, and the awakening of flowers and trees. I am not typically much of a gardener, but this season calls forth a strong motivation to plant more native plants in our yard (for said bees and birds). To join in with the rhythms around me.
As nature seeds out, the earth urges us to plant literal seeds in our gardens and figurative seeds of hope in the days to come — trusting the mystery and unexpected delight that will emerge in future seasons.
Today is a day of scattering potential and possibility. After all, spring reminds us that planting, hoping, and dreaming are all part of the natural cycle.
Moved to Stillness
Let the wind gather you—
your scattered thoughts and worries.
Swiftly, gently blowing across your skin.
Quenching it as winged maple seeds
rain on your body. A moment
in motion, yet, still within—
a pause. A call to be right here,
right now. Even as you feel the internal
pull of dirty dishes and piling laundry.
This moment carried by the wind
grounds you in sacred stillness,
while scattering seeds
of possibility at your feet.
~ Stacey Hayes
invitations
~ Notice: Pay close attention to your landscape and notice nature’s seeds that are being sowed this season. Let them remind you of possibility.
~ Note: Make notes of “seeds” in a journal — these could be glimmers that capture your attention, a list of nature’s wonders, creative ideas, or moments of inspiration.
~ Plant: Plant a garden, a flowerbed, or a pot on your front porch.
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.
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.
One of my favorite things about spring is the emergence of fanciful winged creatures—the enchanting dragonfly who metamorphosed after spending two years underwater as a nymph, the Eastern Tiger Swallowtail who cocooned on the Magnolia and flutters about the treetops searching for nectar-filled flora, the Ruby Throated Hummingbird whose delicate wings traversed the non-stop flight over the Gulf of Mexico, the myriad of moths that feast on wildflowers, the solitary bee who emerged out of its winter burrow, and the Hummingbird Moth who pupated during winter underneath the leaf litter.
These wonders of nature inspire delight and awe in me. They are also rich with paradoxes: strength in smallness as the hummingbird’s tiny wings fly long distances and hover over a flower beating at 53 times per second. The delicate yet nimble dragonfly—its paper-like wings enabling it to fly upside down and backwards.
I am grateful for the gifts these creatures offer to our ecology. All except the dragonfly are vital pollinators. And dragonflies are equally important as they can eat hundreds of mosquitoes each day.
As we observe the beauty and marvels of these aviators, we can embrace the soulful gifts of inspiration and wisdom for our own journeys. For me they symbolize transformation, hope, spirit, and strength. Most importantly, they remind me to flutter, dance, and hum.
Do you identify with a winged creature?What does it symbolize for you?
You may want to explore its gifts and symbolism through a sketch, collage, or poetic form such as the Haiku (see below). Or simply savor the magical moment when you encounter one.
We can explore the season’s winged creatures through poetry such as the Haiku. This Japanese poem is only three lines with a specific number of syllables for each line (5-7-5, respectively). It also doesn’t rhyme or have a title. I am particularly drawn to the Haiku as its themes are traditionally rooted in nature and the seasons. In fact, the poem usually includes a word (a kigo) that reflects the season. I find that the boundaries of the Haiku offer spaciousness in my expression. And there is poignancy in the brevity.
A Haiku captures a moment much like a snapshot photo. In phrases and fragments we describe what we see. We offer our attention to the natural world and notice what calls out to us. Taking in that moment with our senses, we invite it to inspire our words. In the art of Haiku we express and honor what unfolds before us.
still for a moment lacey wings iridescent dart, dragonfly, grace
There many ways to support and nurture our winged friends:
Hummingbirds: Consider planting native flora that attract hummingbirds or offering hummingbird food in a feeder. Learn more.
Moths: Most moths are nocturnal, so considering reducing the use of exterior lights at night. Learn more.
Butterflies: Plant pollinator-friendly plants and offer water sources in shallow dishes. Learn how to help the endangered Monarch Butterfly.
Dragonflies: Avoid the use of pesticides and herbicides on lawns, which flow into watersheds that dragonfly nymphs inhabit for 1-2 years. Learn more about a dragonfly’slifecycle.
If you have followed my newsletters or the Soulful Spring Guide, you may have explored nesting as a metaphor for safety, support, and sanctuary.
Nature now tells us that it may be time to fledge the nest.
During the past couple of weeks, I have seen the baby bluebirds in our backyard fledge the safety of their nest. I literally saw them fly out of the bluebird house for their first flight.
This is a rare thing to see. A clue that birds may be fledging soon are observing them peek out of their nesting cavity. They may spend several hours peeking out of the hole in the nest box — with curiosity, wonderment, and fear — before taking flight.
About a week later, Carolina Wrens who were nesting in a roost house on our deck fledged. We were able to witness them getting fed and as they grew, peeking out of their nest with wonderment.
These fledgling birds are courageous…trusting their instincts, trusting that they have the strength to take flight, and trusting that the support they need will be there when they spread their wings.
Feathers found in or near our backyard.
When we humans think about “leaving our nest,” we usually associate that with leaving our family of origin to go off to college, a new job, or whatever life has in store for us at the time. But in actuality, I believe we are “fledglings” many times throughout our life span. . . . anytime you try something new, take a risk, or start a new phase in life.
This “taking flight” may be a change in our external circumstances – getting married, moving, starting school or a new job, starting a new creative venture, or having a child. Or, our fledgling selves may be born of something internal such as newfound wisdom or spiritual searching and growth.
We often begin again, and again, and again.
Regardless of what brings us to a fledgling time in life, we may feel excited, curious, fearful, courageous, or resistant. These feelings should be expected and fully embraced.
Are you at a fledgling time in your life? If so, it may be helpful to explore these questions with a trusted friend, in a journal, or through artistic expression:
What is piquing your curiosity right now? What change may be stirring?
Are you in a phase of transition?
What support will be there for you when you are ready to “fledge”? What support do you need to seek?
Do you trust that you have the inner and outer resources you need to flex your wings?
What makes it difficult to trust?
How can you offer gentleness and patience to yourself as you flex your wings?
Carolina Wrens just a few days before fledging the nest.
Nature is full of patterns, and spirals are one of my favorites. Spring is a wonderful time to look for and observe spirals in nature as new life emerges and unfurls.
I recently saw this woodland snail venture out after a long rain. What a tiny wonder to marvel at.
Spirals can also be found in seashells, pinecones, sunflowers, and fiddlehead ferns. In plants and flowers, the spiral shape allows them to maximize space and sunlight.
Spirals may symbolize harmony, rhythms and cycles, and expansion and contraction. Offering a unique wisdom, spirals can also inform and inspire our self care practices.
Mindfulness with Spirals
Looking for and observing spirals in nature can be a wonderful mindful practice. These are additional ways to mindfully connect with nature’s spirals:
~ Trace a spiral with your finger onto the palm of your hand…Notice how it feels….
~ Trace a spiral in sand or soil.
~ Be a fiddlehead fern: Use your pointer finger to slowly open (breathing in) and close (breathing out) like a fiddlehead fern. Or, use your whole self to curl up and unfurl as you breathe in and out.
Spiral Art Invitations
You may want to explore spirals further through art making:
~ Draw or paint a spiral. (Cutting along the spiral line will add a kinetic quality and movement.)
~ Arrange nature materials such as shells, leaves, or flowers to create a spiral shape.
~ Create a spiral using clay or salt dough.
~ Write a poem in the form of a spiral.
For Reflection
~ Which spiral in nature do you most identify with?
~ Where may you need to expand or contract?
~ Do you need shelter and stillness as in a snail shell, or growth and unfurling as in a fiddlehead fern?
