Autumn Journal: Kindness
Five hours of daylight have slipped away since midsummer.
Deer eat bark. The sun arrives later. Steam lifts from my coffee, then disappears.
This reflection is about winter’s quiet shift—
how we adapt, how we endure, how everything falls and rises again.
There is nothing to fear.
The leaf drifts down. The breath fades.
And still, the light shines through everything.
Autumn Journal: Fullness
The first true autumn morning arrived,
carried on cool air and chickadee song.
This reflection is about the season of fullness—
when summer’s fire fades, fruit falls, and the world prepares to empty itself.
But not yet.
Not yet.
Spring Journal: Betrayal
We thought spring had arrived.
But last night, snow returned—quietly rewriting everything in white.
This piece is about late snow, broken expectations, and the sorrow of things not going to plan.
But also about what happens when we release the map, and simply notice the cardinal in the laurel.
Spring Journal: Mud
Spring doesn’t arrive with fanfare.
It seeps in slowly—through thawing trails, frost-cracked soil, and the patient churn of mud.
This reflection is about frost seeding, trail-building, and the quiet power of letting the mess make way for something new.
Creation begins with dissolution. Mud first, then bloom.
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: Deer
Each morning, the deer return.
I watch them through my window—daughters grooming mothers, fawns testing new legs.
For years, I thought I knew them. I even named one.
But lately, I’ve begun to see more clearly.
This piece is about how nothing truly disappears.
Not the deer. Not the stream. Not even us.
Everything returns. Everything flows.
Winter Journal: Light
The valley teaches in light.
Each season arrives with its own voice—spring’s honey-gold promise, summer’s restless shimmer, autumn’s amber hush, winter’s quiet charcoal.
From my stillness, I see it all more clearly now. Every leaf. Every shadow. Every tender change.
This reflection is about watching the year turn from a wheelchair—and realizing light is always writing love letters across the walls.
Introduction: Announcement
An announcement.