this ground will hold us

It’s already begun. Even on the coldest mornings, I find my eyes searching the earthen brown of the forest floor for a pop of green. The glowing golden green that coats my eyes in the feelings of spring. 


It’s not time yet.

The wilds are sleeping, still. 

Even with this warm weather, they know well that the days aren’t quite long enough for the changes. And even as I long to write to you of what to look for as the first signs of spring, I know there is a time for that. 


Now, still, and for a minute longer, we keep a slow pace. We rest when we can. And as we stir, we awaken our senses to what our bodies crave —

the shift in seasons, the waking of new life, the green of hope, vision, and direction

We give the world time, and in so doing we learn to give ourselves the same. We follow the signs.

Our senses attune to change.

Like fitness but for the senses, we stretch and strengthen the ways we notice. These skills are especially valuable right now. We are swamped with news and information and want more than anything to take care of each other and be of service in a moment when so much is being torn apart.

The world is not an escape but a landscape; this is literally the ground that holds us. 

Watch for the signs. 

Life is waking in the world around us just as it is in our own spirits, our own bodies. I opened my windows today to clear out the cobwebs and sweep stuck energy from a cozy cold week. Outside those very windows, I can see leaf buds growing, thickening with life. Nearby, fallen tree trunks swept downstream by the storm are overtaken by mycelia; they’ll soon succumb to the warm spring soil. I’ve also set out some birdseed, finally and importantly, in case I might make some friends before the real food comes out. 

What happens when our senses are awake to the world? 

Especially these days, when there is so very much drawing our attention, often necessarily, away from the very real places we dwell, as we rock against security and gentleness in our human sphere… 

I want to remember that I am a part of all this — the winter and it’s soon-to-come changes. I want to nourish myself in this long lingering rest, so that I can be a part of the waking.

So I nourish. I fill my heart and mind and body with stories of truth in the world around me. I am looking to the guidance of the wilds so that I can honor this slow pace, so that I can ease my body into gentleness each night as the sun sets, so that I can settle.

Here are three practices for this moment where craving spring can mean attuning to winter. 

One: Movement Meditation

The morning is cool. Move slow, wake your muscles as you do your spirit. Be gentle, coax them from their steady rest. (I move gently in this movement meditation video to make space in my joints and let energy flow.) 

Two: Tree Signs in Winter

The buds swell. That tree you meet every day as you walk to the mailbox or head off to your appointments or let your eyes wander out the window — do you notice the buds along the branches? Look to the little ones, where you know leaves will grow. What do the buds look like? Is there color to them? What do you notice about their shape? How would you describe them to your five-year-old self?  (More on winter tree identification.)

Three: Birdsong Soothes

The birds are singing. Let the birdsong that swells on a warm morning stir the butterflies in your belly. Who do you hear? Are they the same from day-to-day? Do you see them? (Check out the Audubon Society’s bird migration tracker to discover who’s around this week.)

Spring will soon come.

Very soon, I want to talk about what to look for as we gear our senses up for seeing the world wake in new ways, to wake in new ways ourselves. 

I want to talk about the buds that catch my attention, to learn their tiniest, most detailed parts, to appreciate even more fully when they leaf out what it took to get there. 

I want to listen for the first migratory birds to wander back through from their southern journeys. I want to pay attention to who comes my way and what they’re up to here. 

I want to notice as the pollinators wake from their slumber beneath leaf litter and in the cracks of bark along the trees. I want to distinguish between the native bees that journey around this forest. 

I want to plant seeds and celebrate them along their own journeys. 

Will you join me, in the present gentleness and the budding curiosity? Shall we endeavor to be of this world together?