Winter Journal: Wind
A hawk glides.
A deer runs.
A shadow moves through bamboo.
This piece is about presence—no past, no future.
Just the world as it is:
Thus. Thus. Thus.
Winter Journal: Crocus
Each year, spring begins with a whisper.
A few more seconds of light. A single crocus burning purple through winter’s dullness.
This reflection is about following the sun’s slow return—
and discovering that nothing truly is. Everything is becoming.
Even a flower. Even us.
Winter Journal: Hoarfrost
By dawn, the valley was white without snow.
Just frost—woven in silence across every surface.
By mid-morning, it was gone.
This reflection is about those brief, crystalline visitations.
Beauty that appears, burns, vanishes.
No promise. No permanence. Just presence
Winter Journal: Space, Frame, Leverage
Some days, the weight is unbearable.
Darkness pins me down—thoughts too heavy, breath too short, everything too much.
But then I remember something from a former life:
space, frame, leverage.
This reflection is about using what I learned on the mat to wrestle with despair—
and how small wonders, named fears, and the present moment help me rise again.
Winter Journal: Hunger Moon
The deer come at dusk, ribs showing, coats dull.
The hunger moon rises. The carrion birds gather.
This is a meditation on the sharp edge of late winter—
where bare branches, bones, and longing all speak the same truth:
Don’t look away.
Even now, there is beauty. Even now, everything belongs.
Winter Journal: Halo
Winter has softened.
The snow is gone, and the forest wears its waiting palette—mud and bark, dry weeds and deer-trimmed clover.
But just before sunset, something stirs:
light through branches, a golden flicker, a memory of summer blooming in bare thickets.
This piece is about that moment—brief as a birdcall, perfect in its passing.
Winter Journal: Cold Snap
The snow is gone. But the cold remains.
This reflection is about what winter strips away—
how frost cracks the seed, breaks the stem, and scatters silk on the wind.
Nothing blooms without a breaking.
The universe waits in the split pod, the frozen bird, the hollow stalk bending to soil.
Winter Journal: Treebark
Today, I left the screens and wires behind.
I rolled across frozen ground and placed my hand on the bark of an old beech tree.
This reflection is about the truth beyond thought—
about how our minds draw tidy lines, and how the world quietly ignores them.
What remains is this: bark beneath fingers. Sky above. Earth below.
This moment. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Winter Journal: Melt
Snow remembers everything—
every pawprint, every passing, every path.
But like memory, it doesn’t hold forever.
Edges blur. Shapes shift. A fox becomes a wolf. A story becomes something else.
This piece is about tracks in the snow, and the fragile, fading, often inaccurate stories we call self.
Winter Journal: First Snow
The first snow arrived while we slept.
By morning, the valley was a world reborn—branches blooming in white, silence stretching deep and wide.
This piece is about that brief wonder before the plows arrive.
About grilled cheese, wheelchair tracks, and the joy of walking beside my son across a canvas still untouched.