The Sacred Space Between Seasons

Winter - Week 6 2025 - On Silent Stirrings, Gathering Geese, and Nature's Rhythm

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.

The days are getting longer. It’s that time of year where there are whispers of spring, not loud enough to be heard, but for those who listen, there are signs. Just as the tree sparrows busy themselves in the branches, and the dormant apple tree buds start to think about swelling, so too for those of us who walk with the land, faint thoughts of what’s new begins to rise.

This has been a quieter week. One of those liminal spaces, suspended between winter and spring. My wild home is showing me her softer side, as she takes a moment to breathe, and manifest her devotion.

It’s in these slow moving days when we can feel a closer connection to everything. The invisible stirring of life not yet visible, but still visceral in our bellies. Where in the void, instinct and ancient wisdom calls us forth to get ready, even when the snow still lies on the ground and the frozen lakes show no sign of thawing. The moment when the sky and winds work together and gently beckon us... “Prepare! Prepare! Soon you will be called upon to begin again!”

Without the seeing, without the reasoning there’s inner knowing that settles. Perhaps a perception of truth, of shared souls spread across the universe, maybe even God? So much so that on these chilly mornings the frosty air now has a different quality than before, and plants a loving kiss upon our faces. The crispness softer, a cleansing of what was, a making way for what will come.

“Winter told me to slow down. It whispered to me through the quiet snowfalls and the stillness in the air. ‘Rest,’ it said. ‘This is not a season for bloom, but for gathering strength.” – Holly Hatam

For those whose spirits are tethered to the season, winter's last breath feels endless. The closer we come to its end, the more we strain against it - desperate for warm days, for blue skies, for the promise of release. But nothing can be rushed. For this of all the seasons is the most sacred hour. When all the earth is already awake and quietly gathering its strength. Unspoken sensing, summoning, readying.

For some this time brings dreams of home. In the bare branches of the Cottonwoods the grackles are thronging, chattering their enthusiasm, and in my yard the robins hop across the lawn with a new found fervor. Not yet ready to leave, but a yearning is growing in their painted red bellies.

The geese too have been gathering. Each morning yet more arrives. In the fields on the way to my horses, hundreds are massing to converse and feed on the dried yellow corn stubs. And, at dusk they take flight together, turning the sky into a kaleidoscope of different shades of black. Practice flights to test their wings, and hatch their plans.

This morning several dozen are lying and standing on a carpet of frozen ice at Dodd’s lake. Curiously, I notice they are all facing west. Perhaps that way is home? I see them longing as they look out toward the mountains. Waiting for the right time to leave again. That moment when the days are long enough, and the nights are warmer, and the call is so loud it can no longer be ignored.

I too am waiting. In years before I’ve seen them gathering like this, marveling at the sheer scale of their numbers. And soon within the course of a single night every last one will take their leave and go. It’s as though an alarm has sounded and not one can be left behind. They’ll return again in the fall much to my delight, but all so soon I shall come to miss them.

Tonight the second full moon of the year will rise. A reminder of the ebb and flow of our world. Nothing stops, everything has its time and place. Today the ‘snow’ moon will have her turn, and she’ll stand watch over her glittering white powder which blew in from Montana.

Nature speaks in rhythms we can trust. In the quiet spaces between moonrises and thaw. In the curious stare of the coyote I saw peering at me between the frozen teasels, and in the Swainson Hawk who accidentally let the rabbit go she caught in my neighbor's garden. Each moment just as it was supposed to be.

And so, even in the deepest of mid-winter, underground the roots are stirring, and the creatures who sleep are rousing. Each one expectant with yet unseeable new life. Listen now, the great chorus of the springtime is gathering its choir.