On a winter stroll the small wonders are evident. Photos taken for this post are from Jenkins Estate in Beaverton, Oregon by anne richardson
Gifts of Winter Decay and Darkness-New Awareness
The wind has dropped a limb outside my apartment building, blocking a path. Steady rain has floated decaying leaves downstream, clogging drains and creating mini-ponds in parking lots and along roadsides. I have cloistered myself inside most of the day watching the sky move from chalky gray to a black that bounces the remaining ambient lights of Christmas back down on the neighborhood. We are in deep winter in the Pacific Northwest where a week of water-laden clouds may greet us each morning and stay well into the night. For some, it becomes wearisome. Though I tire of the chill in my bones, I welcome the dampening like a trumpeter that mutes the music to soften crisp tones. It is easier to be still this time of year.
I am awakening to new awareness of winter this season as I awaken to new awareness of myself. I usually see winter as a time to cocoon and draw inward during the extended nights. I still feel that strong urge to draw deep within myself and minimize outside commitments. But then a winter wood spoke to me on a clear day where the low-hanging sun stroked the bare, deciduous branches. It said, “See how expansive winter is, unencumbered by the greening of leaves and labor of bearing fruit.” Abandoned nests rest in branches. A few expired leaves cling to twig tips. Moss and lichen drape the trunks and limbs, embellishing greens against the grays and browns of dormancy.
Stars of the Winter Wood
Is a winter wood dormant? The evergreens are the stars of winter, the bundled pine needles holding onto raindrops and will nestle snow if it arrives. The wide bases of cedars offer shelter in a heavy downpour. Birds that stay for winter feed off red and purple berries that are naked on leafless shrubs, colors standing out in a woodland when the eye is not overwhelmed with summer’s exuberance.
“Holding with Tenderness.” photo by anne richardson
Golden winterhazel roots laid bare with hints of new growth. Winterhazel typically blooms in late winter/early spring. photo by anne richardson
Messages of a Winter Garden
If the wild of a winter wood has messages for me, so does the stillness of a winter garden. And by stillness I don’t mean quiet. A winter garden is full of life. Decay is taking place, enriching the soil. The exposed base of a winterhazel shrub reflects the gnarled complexity of branches disguised in spring. When I gaze into the center, I see into the earth and watch the roots absorbing last night’s storm.
Rosemary, an evergreen herb, is thriving and releases wisps of memories of soup-making from my kitchen when I brush against it. I bring rosemary to my workshops to represent remembrance. Perhaps we always need to remember what we grieve and that is why it never sleeps, offering tender blue flowers for tender hearts even in winter.
Walking With Grief & Gratitude
One has to bundle up to stroll through a winter wood and garden. To slosh through muck and step over fallen limbs. To marvel at the root vegetables that come to fruition in the cold ground. To gasp when burgundy bulbs are spied among sodden leaves. To appreciate the hardy blooms that are offered against the starkness of the slate clouds and mud, rich earth. To thrill at the cacophony of the geese calling overhead. It is a worthwhile journey. A journey that leaves me content. Grateful. Full. And seeing metaphor at every turn.
“The work of the mature person is to carry grief in one hand and gratitude in the other and to be stretched large by them. ...Grief keeps the heart fluid and soft, which helps make compassion possible.”
Year of Transformation Creates Soil for Germination
As I internally “winter,” I burrow into my own fecund soil, allowing the decay of what needs releasing to offer nourishment for what is approaching. To let settle deep in my belly all that was gathered in the harvest of the previous year, for me a year of transformation (see previous blog post,) so it may germinate and expand. I am soul listening. Discerning. If last year was about transforming, this year is about embodying, with boldness, my call.
The expansiveness of a winter wood on a sun strewn morning. photo by anne richardson
Grief, My Mentor’s Thoughts
There is grief in all this. After all, Grief is my mentor and rarely does Grief not have something to say. In my transformation there has been grieving. Of saying goodbye to old ways of being me. Like old shoes that I love and are almost still comfortable, but can’t be resoled or cleaned up and smell if my feet sweat and, try as I might, I realize I can’t wear them for more than an hour before my feet hurt. And yet for a time I still try. Uncomfortable. And so, like those old shoes, I took time to I offer a ritual of thanks for all I have been and am embracing who I am becoming. Grief, my kind mentor, says I can still look at old photos and memories and honor all I have been. Grief also says I can be excited about what is coming. That the season of winter doesn’t have to be bleak. Like the winter wood and garden, it is still and expansive. It is full of decay and life. It is storm and calm. Grief is transformative. What I do with the transformation…that is phase two of my sojourn. That is germinating within.
For Your Reflection
I invite you to consider how you experience winter in your life, metaphorically and/or physically. If you can, take a walk in the woods or through a garden and notice using your senses. If you want, take photos of what draws you in. Take time to stand and observe. If you dare, even have a dialog with nature. Journal about your experience in a way that is comfortable for you: short sentences, poems, drawings, collage, bullet points, full-on pages.
When was the last time you felt yourself “transforming.” How did you honor that transformation?
What are you grieving in your life at this time? Do you allow yourself to grieve? How is grief reflected/felt in your body? In your daily life? Do you let others know you are grieving? How are you honoring your grief?
My Blog Journey: Risk, Humility & Growth in Honor of Grief
Blogging is both a risk and an exercise in humility. My first blog was May 16th, 2016 and this is my 66th post (not including what I share on Facebook and Instagram.) I have risked being more vulnerable over time and am committed to diving deeper in 2020. I have had to cast off my “perfectionism.” I make mistakes, typos, and offend people (well, I am assuming that last one.) I hope I give you a moment to pause and consider/reflect on your thoughts and beliefs about grief, loss, and where you are on your own life journey.
For my part, I continue to engage with professionals via trainings, readings, webinars, etc, that ask me to go “deep in to my own fecund soil,” push my own understandings and beliefs, discern, and be open to where my call is leading.
I hope to post bi-weekly and offer myself grace freely if I miss a time or two…or three. If you would like to receive these in your email, please subscribe via “bloglovin” or “Feedly” (see right hand side of my initial blog page for links.) I would love to have you follow along and receive your comments.
in gratitude, anne
Offering Spiritual Direction/Spiritual Companionship
One of my calls is to spiritual companionship/spiritual direction—in a nutsell: someone who sits in sacred space and listens deeply to the story of another without judgment or trying to “fix.” I am certified as a spiritual director (see my about page for my professional credentials) as well as a board certified chaplain. I meet with folks from all walks of life and at all turns of the life journey. Grief & loss and life transitions are two of my specialties. If you are interested in finding out more about spiritual direction, what I mean by “sacred space,” or setting up a time to meet (I can do Zoom) please check out my spiritual direction webpage or send me an email.
Upcoming Workshop:
Recognizing & Honoring Life Transitions
April 4th, 1-5pm, SW Portland.
Click on link for details.
