Dear Friend, New England’s summer warmth is a distant memory. Although we’re a month beyond the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, the sun still seems to disappear behind the Berkshire hills just as I’ve seized the day. We may bemoan shorter days and cold seasons, revering summer’s growth, brightness, and activity. Adding to the extra work and challenges cold, dark seasons bring, they can intensify internal shadows and make the world’s chaos feel even more foreboding. Yet, many plants and animals need dark, cold dormancy to regenerate in the spring. Just so, winter is a time for humans to restore, reflect and dream. Befriending the darkness and slower rhythms feeds our creativity and our sense of belonging with the natural world. Withered, weathered plants peek out, faded browns and grays amidst encrusted snow. They appear dead, though they are not. They are still asleep, their energy drawn into their roots within the earth. Prompted by nature’s inward rhythms, in the winter I grow even more reclusive. As if wrapping myself in a heavy velvet cloak, I relax back into our Earth Mother’s arms to dream and muse. Sensing into plant and tree roots beneath the insulating ground and snow, I tune into the subtle melodies moving through these webworks. I listen with my whole being as the roots sing ancient tales – amazing stories of who we and our living planet really are. There are endless illumined pathways like this under the earth that through my imagination I enter and wander upon. When I’ve absorbed the goodness of the underneath places, I feel human enough – of the earth enough – to be more present with the life that moves on the earth’s surface, like squirrels running circles around each other and leaping like acrobats between barren branches. Bundled in warm, wooly layers I watch them, the village sounds muffled when we’re lucky enough to have a snowfall. My body is as still as a stone statue as the crisp, chilled air stings my nostrils and creates little clouds of fog with each of my breaths out. This air I breathe is shared with wintry winged ones, such as black-capped chickadees, tufted titmice and white breasted nuthatches that look like little puffballs with feathers raised to trap warm air for insulation against the cold. The small birds lunge through space as exuberantly as the squirrels. Larger birds such as stellar and blue jays, bright red cardinals and woodpeckers appear more measured. Among them, the diligent downy woodpecker captures my heart. Its black and white wing patterns appear painted by nature’s most sensitive artists. Adding to the mystery of its design is the splash of red on the back of the male downy head. I watch, listen, touch with my body and heart into this winter-wonderworld. As my stillness and presence deepen, I imagine nature sensing into me. The fringes of this rural village are wooded, scruffy and untamed, wildly inviting for the animals, birds, spirits, and me. The land beyond yawns out to tiny hamlets nestled among the diversified landscapes of the rolling hills including highland bogs and plateaus, forests and meadows, lakes and ponds, meandering rivers, and streams. On cavernous, wintry nights my dreaming-self slips light as a feather, quiet as a whisper, from my heavy slumbering body to wander aimlessly through these magical terrains. There are those who warn us not to get lost in our dreams, or to live in our imagination – that there are more important things to do, and ruminate about, plans to make, and sides to take. Yet, it is through imagining that nature reveals life’s most precious and hopeful gifts. Dreaming is where I find myself. Dream well and deeply, my friend. From my heart to yours. For the Earth. Llyn Cedar Roberts, MA OMEC Founder
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