The Dance of False Spring
Winter - Week 7 2025 - On Winter's Returns, Patient Wings, and Souls in Waiting
In Her Nature is a year long exploration into the healing power of the natural world. Season by season, setting out to awaken the spirit, and rekindle joy. The weekly journal of a neighborhood, its plants and birds and creatures — and how they are helping repair a heart and rebirth a soul.
Our first false spring arrived and vanished in a matter of days. More will come - each a promise winter isn't quite ready to keep. But we remain patient, knowing spring strives to reach us, as we long for her return.
Here in Colorado, we know this dance all too well - this familiar rhythm of February and March that teases us endlessly. Yet during those precious mild days, we let ourselves dream into spring's awakening, embracing each gentle moment as the sun warms our backs and frees us, briefly, from our winter wrapping.
Though, this week I wish I could say I was more resilient; more able to cope with winter - the comeback kid. Alas, I appear to have so easily and hurriedly thrown down my battle-tested constitution, that I’m having a tough time picking it back up.
And oh, after those giddy daydreams of what vegetables I hope to plant this year, the more-bitter-than-ever cold is a colossal shock to my nose and cheeks, and my blocks of ice for feet. Last week there was an unfurling energy about the neighborhood, and now as we head straight toward another polar vortex I’m left wondering if flying south wouldn't be such a bad idea. This on again and off again season is like a well read teenage romance. All drama blooming with passion and love one minute, only to be flung back to the deep freeze cold shoulder on the next impulsive gust of wind.
Overnight our winds brought fog to the Front Range. As soon as dawn broke it began rolling in thicker and farther, freezing all in its path. Painting the branches of the mountain ash and switch-grass with inch thick crystal rime.
I love these rare murky winter mornings where I live. Looking out onto the barely visible open space wondering what I’ll see emerging out of the perfect snowy white soup. A coyote? A bachelor group of young bucks? Or maybe only Rick and his dog Barley bounding up to the fence line to say hello.
These mysterious moments conjure possibilities which are difficult to manifest under bright blue skies. The shadowy mist reawakens days and now years gone by. Of loss and wishes, and even regret when I forgot that I used to be somebody.
On these kinds of days, I make room for sadness, knowing grief is as much my teacher as joy.
And so, in the soft blur between light and shadow, everything asks to be seen. Each fragment praying to be honored before it can finally be let go. This is where grief does her deepest work - not in the sharp clarity of day, but in these gentle, melancholic moments. Here, I can finally honor all that's been lost. All the pieces of myself I barely recognized as they fell away.
A Reminder from Smaller Beings
The bird building her home on your windowsill
has had every nest destroyed before.
The spider that is delicately weaving a silken masterpiece
has had every single thread broken before.
And despite it all,
they try again.
-- Nikita Gill
I'm learning that healing follows no calendar. Each false spring has taught me that healing isn't linear. That some days the light returns only to recede again, and sometimes the darkness will return, deeper than before. But this is the only way - these waves, this erratic dance of recovery.
My wintering has been long, but I'm softening to trust its rhythm - advancing, retreating, always in its own time. These winters of the soul will take as long as they take.
It’s snowing now. Traces of gentle flakes in the wind, floating across the view from my window. A reminder to be tender with my heart. To walk a little lighter on the earth and lift up my chin.
A miracle to me that in these frigid temperatures a cacophony of birds are whirling. They bring my eyes upward as they swoop, and flutter and soar. A throng of so many who have just now found the mix of seeds I lovingly left as an offering, knowing today they would be hungry. The dark-eyed Juncos and finches hop in the weeping branches of the wild cherry, while the Grackles, and the Blue Jays chatter at each other with their spirited verve. And the delicate little mountain chickadee's are whistling sweetly... fee-bee, fee-bee.
There's wisdom in these winged beings who neither fight the cold nor surrender to it. We all must continue, somehow, through false springs and deep freezes alike. Their wings against impossible skies remind me that survival itself is profound—not despite the bitter cold, but somehow woven through it.
Perhaps our collective waiting isn't passive at all, but rather a quiet rebellion against endings, a testament to the truth that life carries on even when buried beneath the snow.
Your Weekly Nature Rx:
Each morning this week, look for one small sign of nature's resilience—a plant growing through concrete, birds building in unexpected places, or even the persistent return of daylight. Consider how these observations might reflect your own journey.
Please do share your observations and photographs of what you are noticing this new week in the comments. Our community would love to hear from you!
I went to my first eagle fest last Saturday, an extremely cold day on Plum Island in MA. It was a spur of the moment decision to sign up just before midnight on Valentine's Day. My intuition told me that my almost year long relationship might be ending soon and I didn't want to be alone. About a dozen people joined our Meetup group and we eagerly hiked seven miles over ice-covered terrain along the Merrimack River. We were rewarded with the siting of only a single eagle perched on a tree limb - alone but with a commanding presence.
A fellow hiker told me that a 64 year old woman I knew named J had died unexpectedly in her sleep two days earlier. It was a stark reminder that life is precious and I shouldn't take it for granted.
Another hiker told me that a woman I knew years ago was a close friend of his. And at age 97 M is still living an active life continuing her internationally recognized work in environmental conservation. M once shared that she began this work as a means of dealing with her deep depression. Perhaps M's reappearance in my life is a reminder that I need to get back to a vision I set for myself to keep making good progress in riding life's waves.
Thanks, Jane, for sharing your beautiful writing and insights. They have helped me get clarity as I sort out my own next chapter. And, yes, that relationship I mentioned earlier did come to an end.
Heading out to meet a new friend I made at the eagle fest. Sometimes it is better for me to fly than to hold on tight.
So beautiful. Every word and phrase such poetry. Thank you Jane. As one who has seasonal depression this is such a good reminder not to fight or surrender but watch how winter weaves its way into and through my life.