The last days of winter are unfolding as they should, with snow, ice, and cold temperatures starting to become balanced by days of warmer weather and increasing daylight. Sensing the nearness of spring, part of me wants to put on my fastest sneakers and gleefully run down the path to greet her. But the wheel turns as it turns, and I know I cannot hurry the seasons. Here in Western North Carolina, it is time for purple dead nettle, speedwell, and chickweed to begin blooming. I welcome the sight of those tiny harbingers in my gardens yet would wince to see the daffodils or tulips flowering before spring has truly arrived.
As I follow the turning of the seasons, I shift my focus inward during the dark days of the year. This time for introspection, healing, and growth has become something of an annual retreat for me, but the current cycle has been different. During this particular time of observance, that retreat also became a place of refuge.
Purple dead nettle [S. Barker]
When I entered that spiritual and mental space, I was weary down to my bones. Exhausted by the constant barrage of drama in the world and the isolation and tension created by the pandemic and politics, I allowed myself to wander farther away from the world than I had ever done before. There was no abrupt exit, no social media announcement of departure. I had no plan in place. I simply allowed myself to move along with the season guided by my spiritual connection to the earth and creatures that share my land and home, slowly shifting my focus from the external world and all of its noise to my own needs and my inner self.
There was some angst involved in this process. I struggled with should-be and have-to and concern about disappointing people, especially around the holidays. In early January, after dealing with a tough emotional challenge, I ventured out to walk aimlessly around my overgrown winter gardens. Fresh air and a change of environment usually bring comfort, and it is often the case that I find answers in nature even when I am not intentionally seeking. As I walked, I talked aloud, greeting plants and land spirits and venting about my troubles.
Something shimmered brightly in the dirt and dried stems as I walked past the raised bed that holds medicinal herbs such as chamomile and borage. Curious, I stepped up into the bed and looked around but could not find anything other than plant matter. As I was leaving, I stepped down first with my right foot, but when I moved to step down with my left, my shoelace caught on a stud on the t-post fence. I was stuck and could not go anywhere. I could not see where the lace was caught, so after several unsuccessful attempts to free myself, I just stepped out of the shoe, intending to sit down on the edge of the garden bed and work the shoe free.
I thought I heard a giggle when my wool-sock-clad first foot touched the damp, cold earth. I knew I heard a laugh when I sat down on that same earth.
I laughed myself, then said, “Very funny, land spirits!”
Veronica speedwell [B. Rhodes]
Waiting to see if there would be any further communication, I managed to untangle my lace from the fence post. I put my shoe on then sat there long enough for my mind to start turning over the issues I was trying to work through, but it kept returning to the idea of being stuck. One foot on the ground, one foot in the garden. Unable to go anywhere until I had both feet in the same place.
All of the expectations carried by shoulds and musts and guilt were keeping me stuck; one foot in the external world, one foot on the path of my inward journey, unable to move forward, and increasing my stress at a time when I wanted to be working toward a deeper sense of balance and peace to prepare myself for spring.
After speaking gratitude to the land spirits for getting my attention, I left the raised bed and walked to the north fence line. I sat on the bench in my favorite meditation spot, which faces an old apple tree across the way. There I processed my way through 55 years of societal and personal expectations that I began internalizing in childhood. Those expectations were never intended to serve me; they were all about taking care of other people’s needs first. I decided I was done carrying them around. I dug a shallow hole next to the compost stall. Sitting once more on the cold ground, I released those expectations into the earth with a little ritual, then buried them and left them behind.
That night I dreamt of the apple tree standing stark in the winter field, bare limbs reaching to a cold sky. Moving deosil around the tree, I noticed a spot on the north side where a bear had marked it with its claws. When I pressed my fingers to the scratches, a door opened, and I was suddenly inside a cozy winter den.
I woke from that dream knowing that I needed to create such a space for myself in order to make it through the rest of winter and be prepared to greet the coming spring. I wrote about it first, painting the scene with deliberately chosen words until I could see it in my mind. Then I traveled there in meditation until the path was well-worn and the door to my den beneath the apple tree opened effortlessly.
I start each day in meditation in that space and visit each night before I sleep. It has become my transition point for moving into the transformative work I set intentions for completing during this season, and a safe haven whenever I have need.
Like many living things that go to ground in the winter, I am not hibernating. Deep in my snuggery below the surface of the earth, I am listening, learning, and connecting. I can feel life moving all around me: seeds holding in their power until they are ready to send out tiny roots and then push toward the sun; insects and animals, some resting, some still working every day to survive. I am alone but not alone. I am connected to every other living thing.
The Coming Spring [Ashley Carr, courtesy]
I walked around the gardens again today. The sun was shining, and the temperature was in the 70s. The rose bushes are not yet recovering from the freezing weather this winter. I tell them there is no hurry. The sedum is showing new growth, and I make a note to make a note to cover it when there is another freeze. The elderberry and juneberry trees are sporting tightly furled buds that make me feel hopeful for bountiful harvests. I am grateful for the promises that come with spring.
The first verse of an old chant comes to my mind and then from my lips as I am walking.
Mother, I feel you under my feet
Mother, I hear your heartbeat
Mother, I feel you under my feet
Mother, I hear your heartbeat
I have done my share of resting and nourishing: body, mind, and spirit. I have read good books and poetry and listened to good music. I have spent long hours in silence, deep within the body of the great mother. I have studied and dreamed, practiced magic and meditation. I am beginning to believe that I am almost ready to reconnect with the world. To venture out. To visit with friends. But not until spring is really here. Until then, I will remain in my underground haven, roots spreading and connecting, grounding and strengthening me as I begin to reach for the sun.
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