Archive of ‘Nature’ category

A Lost World

marianne stokes

Artist – Marianne Stokes

The world is afloat on a cloud, a cold breath over everything, icing the trees, the ground, the grass. I lay in my bed and saw a white, glowing blanket outside my window, the moon coming through it.

I saw the sun for a moment, touching the mountains, but then it was gone, everything lost again to the mist, everything silent, everything frozen. Even the birds have no strength to sing now. They just stay among their branches, huddling in the winter chill.

There is magic in the mist. I saw it drifting across the forest yesterday, and thought of all the stories about it, about creatures appearing and disappearing in it. That it’s an entrance to a different time, a different world. 

I’m in a calm place, I read calming things, but I’m rarely calm myself. Perhaps that’s why I’ve come here, to see if some of the earth, the air can seep into me, give me some of that quiet frost. I’m learning to trust. That’s what I call it. I imagine what it would be like to walk through my day in trust, knowing I’m safe. Or at least feeling I’m safe, that there is nothing to worry about, to be agitated about, as though something might strike me at any moment. Maybe I felt that life betrayed me, fell out from under my feet, that the gods betrayed me, somehow. That I can’t trust them now, even though I want to.


I walked in the forest, in the early evening, when everything was a breath of blue and the sky had lines of gold in it. As I walked, I observed a joy inside of me that I feared, that I had hidden away. I hadn’t allowed myself to feel it because it might go away, might anger the gods, anger destiny if I allowed it to bubble up inside of me. Maybe I would set myself up to being hurt.

I thought also of my mom, then my sisters, how I felt I shouldn’t laugh and be happy when they were sick. No one told me I couldn’t be, but somehow it felt wrong. I suppose children learn things that are hidden beneath the surface, things left unsaid.

I thought of the Goddess and wondered if perhaps she was light and joy, and beautiful things and that maybe it would make her happy if I dared to step into it. For some reason, it wasn’t something I had considered she’d want for me. But sometimes I feel her laughing, shaking her head, as though I’m taking things too seriously.

I would like to walk with lightness in my steps, and not be afraid of trying, of failing. I would like a deep calm to enter me, deep in my bones, like that blue air that was all around in the forest, silvering the branches. I wanted to kneel and stay there, on the frozen ground, by the waterfall, like white lace down the mountain. I wanted to listen, for the earth to teach me something, but I wasn’t alone in the forest, and we had to get home in time for something. But that’s what I felt then. It’s what I still feel when I remember walking in that new winter world. I’m happy it’s here. 

Darkness Sprung into Light

The last leaf Mermaid by Victor Nizovtsev

The last leaf Mermaid by Victor Nizovtsev

She saw a pale white flower, blossoming out of the darkness, leaving a trail of light on the water, pointing to the horizon, to her new life. 

She picked it up, holding it in her hands, carefully, tenderly, a fragile thing of snow white petals, glittering faintly. She put it to her heart, knowing it was also inside of her; darkness sprung into light.


The sun is out, and I feel my spirit responding, brightening to the white light in the trees, the field pale, withering away during the cold nights though there is no snow yet. But I’m waiting for it, seeing it approaching from a distance, seeing the top of the mountain dusted white in the morning. 

I curl up in my sleep and have to leave the oven on at night though I don’t like it. I’d rather leave my window open, if I could, letting in the night air, feeling it brush against me as I lay awake, looking at a pale light in my window, from the waxing moon. 

I’m writing a little every morning, in the black hours before dawn. I have more courage then, and more strength to just sit until the words begin to flow. I’m wondering what it means to have a courageous heart, a heart that’s honest, pure, as inspired by the song below.

Fragile Things

Artist - Francois-Fressinier

Artist – Francois-Fressinier

She moved through the grass in the black night, wet with rain. Mist cloaked everything, leaving a silver hue over the mountains. There was no moon, only darkness, only blackness in the trees, the ground, the air around her.

Yesterday I broke something precious, something fragile, like porcelain inside of me, and it shattered on the floor. But now I’m gathering the pieces, hoping I can return to myself, to what I had.

When we have something, we don’t think about how easily it can break, until it does, and then we’re sorry. But I’m finding it again now, gems in a field littered with frost, remembering what it took to get to where I am. Remembering to honor the journey, even if I long to get further ahead.

The day has started, but it’s wrapped in silence, in white, the world almost lost in it. I thought I saw ice for a moment, but then it was gone, and I realized it was just mist and light playing. The nights are getting colder, the storms having stilled a little, leaving room for the deep freeze. 

There is light on the trees now, and I can make out drops of water in the birches. I remember walking in the forest yesterday, almost stopping in my tracks by the beauty of rain, like pearls, gathered on a small, pine tree. Seeing that brought me out of myself a little, because I had been lost in worries.

I so wish I had a sunlit chair to sit in, by a large window, to be warmed by light, even in winter. 

Always Searching

Waterbaby - William Samuel Henry Llewellyn

Waterbaby – William Samuel Henry Llewellyn

Sometimes I feel cracked and weathered, like a well gone dry. And I look for books, for words to drink from, for stories that will sing to me. I feel I’m always digging to find them, always searching, searching.

I found this. Do you have any books you’d like recommend? 

Afternoon Walk

I went for a walk in the afternoon light. There was no snow, but I could still tell it was the winter sun, white and cold. I felt I was walking and gathering words, under the blue sky, among the trees, dead leaves, and yellow grass. I saw the black lake, so deep now, inching towards the trees. 

I sat down among the birches, in a place new to me, and saw their stems gray and bearded, old, weathered branches reaching towards the sky. I could see the sun between them, making the grass gleam in front of me. A thread of light went from it to me, going across the road, the water, all the way to where it was setting over the mountains.

I took my shoes off, gasping at how cold the ground was, but it felt so good to keep my feet there, if only for a moment. I always feel like I’m somehow floating above everything, above the world, not quite in myself, in my body like a friend once said. Maybe I’m writing my way back to myself.

First Light

francois fressinier

Francois Fressinier

I like to sit in the darkness, by candlelight, watching the black morning outside my window, seeing cars driving by, the day starting. I sit in silence, working on my book, burning incense, praying. 

I want to stand in the doorway, in that moment of breaking, of first light touching the sky, cold air wrapped around me. 

I want to walk softly, letting nothing touch me save the voice of the Goddess, whispering to her, hearing her whisper back. There is something about the early morning that makes me want to be quiet and still within myself; that makes the words come, as though the calm of night still lingers, the stars having left some of their magic behind. 

I read once about a man wanting to be careful so that the morning did not break like glass around him. That stayed with me because I feel it too. I don’t want to rush or be brash. I don’t even want to speak. I just want to sit and watch the sky brightening, perhaps quietly make breakfast, breathing in its sweetness. See a dark forest outside my window, fields now green and yellow, grass dying away, no more flowers, the world left naked. 

A Black Forest

Sir Galahad, George Frederic Watts

Sir Galahad, George Frederic Watts

I walked through the forest, dark trees closing in around me, the sky pale and grey behind them. Even the rain felt black, like drops of night falling, and I walked passed puddles of water, seeing my reflection in the dim light, feeling I was looking into a winter mirror. 

There is no snow yet, only darkness, and bare trees without leaves. I saw a white flower, still with its petals, bending in the wind, and it felt like a last touch of light, whispering of a summer passed. 

I wake up to see the sun on the mountains, the sky brightening, but then the rain takes over and there is only a storm coming and going throughout the day, roaring wildly in the night. I don’t mind. I like this time of deep night, of candles burning. I go past little white houses and see lights in the windows, thinking about Advent, when there’ll be stars and candles everywhere. 

My husband and I bought tickets to a Christmas concert, and I’m looking forward to it, and it’s only a few weeks away. We’ll be listening to this lady: 

Wishing you blessings, whether you’re in the season of darkness, or light. 

Gathering Darkness

3703e178fd05a2584b30112b01e51d5fI walk and see leaves in the sky, fluttering high above me. Leaves everywhere. A pale water-colored world, golden around its edges. 

Today was almost warm, as though the world had turned to spring, forgetting about winter. Rain was in the air, but the sun also, sometimes breaking through the clouds, always a bright glow behind them. I loved the wind, feeling it sweep through the trees, the grass. Everything felt sparkling and new, even as I felt the darkness gathering all around me, saw trees naked and bare, dark against the sky. 

I felt a small thrill as we passed little white houses, and I imagined them iced with frost, gleaming with lights. I can’t wait for Advent, and the first snow. 

By the Stream


Silence of the night – Arthur Rackham

I knelt by the stream today, on the wet rocks, cupping water in my hands, drinking. I felt wild kneeling there, as though I had crossed a boundary, and stepped closer to something both natural and sacred. I felt that walking along a gravel path wasn’t enough, that I had to kneel in the dirt, feel the earth beneath me to truly be part of nature. 

I had climbed down to the rushing stream, because I was thirsty, and found myself wanting to stay there. I looked up at the autumn colors, the blue sky behind the trees. I stretched my hands into the air, wanting to pray, to worship something great and wonderful.

This evening I stood beneath the stars, sending a prayer into the night, feeling it was easier to hear the divine outside the four walls of my apartment. I wonder what it would be like to live under the open sky, always.

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