This year, winter seems new. It feels different. Vibrant. Alive, even. Snow glistens tales and ice catches wonderings to hold them close. And as I run to find answers, the forest freezes. So I listen. And I rest.
I am, and always have been, a wanderer—of memories, of poems and of unknowns. Even now, I often sit still by the river. I step on the mossy grass that laces my home, smiling when it turns to ice with each gentle walk. I listen for the stories held close by lively streams, praying this searching leaves my heart warm. And I honor how soft the pines leave my fingertips, how even silent wind calls me home.
When I close my eyes during these small moments, blinking light snowflakes into the fresh winter air, I see the young girl I used to be — the one who often strolled on hilly New England landscapes and found it enlightening to hide behind evergreens.
I believe I feel so tethered to this land because it has seen me grow while it has always stayed the same. And yet, whenever I return, it continues to honor the truth, especially when I still feel too frightened to share it.
During each slow and wintery season, these journeys lead me to humbly trust that forests are home to wandering souls, to those who find promise in the waiting — especially when all feels lost. I have always felt most myself when alone in the woods, for no one to hear or hold me but the trusting and lively folk of nature’s beckoning wind. The forest truly will evermore epitomize my most admired winter ways, the ones I find more alluring than the surface world beyond the overstory of treetops that are forever veiled in eternal grace and promises.