Listening to Winter

A Message on the Wind

Hello Beautiful Souls, I am humbled we meet again. Today we gather close to the warming fire and take a pause whilst listening to Winter’s breath across the land.

Early February morning at dawn.

Rain is falling; it travels down the windowpanes; it falls into puddles and on the soft leaves of the fir tree standing outside my front door. Daffodils, newly opened sway gently and snowdrops pause, like little lanterns held up within the dark.

The log burner glows and a thrush begin his song; the notes are carried away on raindrops, over the church steeple and far away to the distant trees where a fox pauses with one paw raised before disappearing silently into the hidden undergrowth.

Holding a cup of tea under a thick throw, I am listening to the dawn. Sensing and feeling the quiet, the soft presence of time itself. Once we remove human noise, we can hear nature speak. We can listen to its messages, its wisdom and feel, like the fox, a stirring within our hearts of what is to come.

It has been almost two years since a nudge, an awareness came for me to return to a simpler, quieter way of being. That modern, fast – paced life was drowning out seasonal rhythms, that a noisy, productive way of being was not allowing me to thrive. It has been a journey of ebb and flow, a practice of taking steps tentatively, to seek guidance alongside daily rituals, to find peace and joy in the turning of the days, and to carve out time to pause, to reflect and to move with intention.

To move mindfully, to uncurl gently like the emerging daffodil as it begins to unfurl.

Placing my cup down, I stoop to put a log onto the fire. Watching the flames flicker I reflect on this Winter and how it has called for deep refuge, retreat and patient waiting. How the darkness came early, how the quiet was absolute. And yet, as we travel these February days, Winter has released his grip.

The earth is no longer resting, it is emerging.

Like the daylight that greets us earlier each dawn, we can see the path through the forest, the way towards the Wild Garlic, the Primroses and Bluebells. Not yet visible, we feel them breathe, we sense their awakening from within the soil. In a world where certainty is unstable, these seasonal awakenings, as old as time itself give us a solid ground to tread, a way to follow, a way that has been carved out before.

I carry my tea to the window and look across at the fir tree and marvel at its ability to just be. Droplets of water glisten at the edge of pointed leaves like glimmering faraway lights and the damp bark is a smell of old, reminding me of forests long ago, of land covered in leaves, of wolves and full, round moons.

A log crackles and falls into the fire as I gently open my front door. The robin, my early visitor is waiting, and I scatter seed on the doorstep. As he swoops down a gust of icy wind reminds me of Winters presence. I look the other way and see the line of daffodils, not yet open but a yellow promise, like the sun, a reminder that Spring, with her light step and green rich cloak will come and her footsteps will warm the earth’s soil.

The Robin flies up into the trees, and I close the door with a gentle exhale. The room is warm, comforting and I have no desire to leave it yet. Wintering this year has been a daily ritual of keeping warm in an ancient stone cottage with drafts in every corner. And yet part of me has welcomed this season into my home. The rattle of the windowpanes during recent storms, the heavy rain on the roof and the steaming of my dripping winter coat after returning from feeding my hens. Seasonal reminders that seem to slow down time, to allow for a presence of what is, to mirror Winter’s company by feeling cocooned and warm.

As I carry my cup into the kitchen, I see the rain has eased. The sky has lightened and I hear another sound in the distance. It gets nearer and nearer, and I open the door to see the Winter geese flying overhead, their sound becoming more distant as they disappear over the hill and far away. To me they seen to be carrying a message within their calling; an urgency that tells me time is running out. Winter’s breath of ice and glory is almost over. Winter is living on borrowed time.

And yet, as I make my way back to the warmth of the fire, I am content to be with Winter a little longer. Spring will arrive on time and until then I will wake each day with the lengthening dawn.

Thank you for taking this gentle rest with me. I am humbled you have joined me.

If you would like to travel alongside for longer you are warmly invited to subscribe to receive my weekly free Nature’s Seasonal Letters. I would be honoured to walk this path with you.

Sending seasonal warmth to you all

Clare