Witnessing Winter’s Magic and Connecting with Nature
December arrived and with it winter. Snow and snow and snow.
It’s been magical.
And I’m leaning into the season. Doing cozy things inside like simmering a fragrant pot of pine needles, cedar sprigs, orange slices, cloves, cinnamon sticks and other spices. Baking. Making fires in our fireplace. I’ve been keeping the bird feeders filled. Just standing for a minute watching the birds this morning I counted 10 different species at the feeders.
I’m drawn to the windows. And I feel myself pulled outside. I’ve cleared paths around the property to make it easier to walk the dogs, but also for me.
I became a bit obsessed with making paths around the property
When I was a child I loved winter. I loved playing outside in the snow. Snow was magical. Each tiny flake, unbelievable. I’d catch snowflakes on my mittens and study them, surprised, awed at this glimpse into a secret, tiny world. Layers and layers of snowflakes together transformed our tiny suburban backyard into something vast and mysterious, sparking my imagination and inspiring my creativity.
Even as an adult, a snow-covered landscape is magical. No matter what the landscape. A suburban backyard. An urban street. Rural countryside.
our road before the snowplow came
One of my greatest pleasures as a child was pristine, untouched snow, just waiting for its first marks. Making those first marks was thrilling. Footprints. Snow angels. I didn’t want to “use up” all of the blank snow too quickly and I wouldn’t let my brother walk in certain spots until I was ready.
I can’t remember if I relished a blank sheet of paper as much as a blank expanse of snow. I probably did. And I probably enjoyed those first marks there, too.
At some point as I grew up, I stopped making art and I stopped loving winter, too.
hoarfrost on the pines at the edge of our property
Even after I started making art again, winter was difficult for me. Each year I’d mourn the loss of my garden with fall’s arrival. In winter, I missed my garden. Where I live, winter is long. And dark. And cold. As a gardener it’s hard not to be able to dig in the dirt for many months of the year. Some years the first snow falls in September. And the last snowflakes as late as May.
But my feelings have been shifting back again. Last December I shared this thought:
“I’m enjoying the subtle beauties of winter in a way I haven’t for a long time.
Making a point to be present and curious and observing the changes in my garden throughout the seasons has made me more attuned to the constant and ever-changing beauty found in nature. I don’t look out at my sleeping garden and think, ‘I wish there were flowers,’ instead, I see and embrace it as it is.”
I’ve come to realize that it all comes down to my point of view. My focus. Whether or not I’m paying attention. No matter my situation, there’s beauty and magic to notice. No matter the season, there’s joy to experience and ways to exercise my creativity.
I’ve shifted my art focus to festive houseplants with the very beginnings of a poinsettia painting
Sometimes I need reminders. Life can get in the way. The frenetic craziness of the world can steal my attention. But I can always quietly come back to myself.
more of my paths through the snow, one going to our tobacco barn
Watching.
Listening.
Being.
Making.
“One day recently I looked out at my garden and thought about how I’ll be better able to connect with nature when we finally find our property in the country. I imagined looking out my windows and seeing hills and trees instead of other houses and cars. That evening when I stood in the garden with the dogs I heard an owl calling. The next morning I spotted a hawk in our birch tree. Since then I’ve noticed bald eagles flying over our yard again and again.
The universe has been sending me reminder after reminder that I can connect with nature right where I am.”
Little did I know when I wrote those words that five months later we would find our property in the country.
But what I wrote was true then and it’s true now. It all comes down to my point of view, my focus.
looking across our neighbor’s hay field to watch the sun set
Thursday morning I said goodbye to Matthias when he left for work. It was still dark and I poured myself another cup of coffee. As I stood in the kitchen I heard an owl calling. We hear them often here, but it’s harder now we’ve put in all the storm windows. It takes effort. Quiet. Stillness. The owl sounded close. Loud, even with the closed up house. I carefully opened the back door and peered outside. It was just light enough to see the owl’s silhouette at the top of the Dead Tree. It’s the first owl I’ve seen here. I came back inside and sat on the living room floor to watch it through the doors to the deck. I watched and listened to it calling until it took flight and swept away.
I think I’ve fallen more in love with this property and our new home with winter’s arrival than I had so far in any other season.
One of the paths in our front yard. You can see the Dead Tree towering behind the house toward the right.
And I think it’s because I’ve been trying to pay very close attention. Watching. Noticing. Creating rituals throughout the day to experience beauty. Walking to the end of the driveway to look for the almost-full moon.
sunset, the day before the full moon looking across the road to our neighbor’s field
Sitting in the sunroom with my coffee to watch the sun rise. Striding to the edge of the property to see the sun set. Being present to observe and honor the daily beauty that can so easily slip by without notice.
hoarfrost covered trees from the top of the driveway
One day this week when I took the dogs out with me for a walk, I noticed movement out the corner of my eye. The dogs were oblivious, Clara boomeranging up the steps wanting to go back inside, Fiona leaping through the snow in the other direction. But I saw the pheasant winding his way up the driveway and away from us. Later when I walked along the driveway, I noticed paths of pheasant footprints in the snow. I’m not sure I would have known what they were if I hadn’t seen the bird making them.
pheasant tracks from the left cross over a deer’s path
Spotting tracks in the snow, I’m transported back to childhood glee, delighted by the secrets of nature suddenly visible. More of winter’s magic, a glimpse into mysterious hidden worlds. I want to learn it all.
Connecting with and being a part of nature isn’t just about big things. It’s about the tiny ones, too.
When’s the last time you looked closely at a snowflake? Take a moment and look at some. Really look.
Magic.
I can’t look at a snowflake, I can’t think about one, without being overcome by wonder. Take a moment and think about it. Really think about it.
Wow.
40-some years later I’m still the same person who caught snowflakes on her mittens and studied their perfect, crystalline magic with awe, who relished a stretch of untouched snow, seeing it as a blank canvas. More and more I realize that little version of me is just who I want to be.
I never want to forget to let her guide my way.
Thank you for being here. I’m grateful for your encouragement and support. This will be my last blog post of the year, but before I go, I wanted to share my gratitude and celebrate YOU.
Lifetime access to my new class is now available through my website. It’s the second class I’m offering this way (see the first one here). Over the coming year I hope to add more classes to my site. But for now, to celebrate, I’m giving away spots in both classes. I’m also giving away this set of paints and a year’s membership to Skillshare (where I have 31 classes!). Four prizes and four lucky winners! See the details in my most recent Joy Letter and find more chances to win in this note on Skillshare. Thank you, again, for sharing these spaces with me.
Wishing you a beautiful rest of your December and end to the year!
