December is a time of deep quiet. There is nothing like the silence of a pre-dawn morning in Winter. Whether your holiday celebrations are religious or spiritual, there is a tangible collective energy this time of year. Stories describe this feeling as Christmas magic. For this short time we are tapped into something beyond our human interpretation if we pay close attention. Some years I feel it more strongly than others. Whether it is because I’m not as distracted or because there are ebbs and flows of energy just like the tides, I can’t say for sure. What I do know is that nature takes this time to conserve energy, rest, take stock of what needs restoring. Like trees, we need time for turning inward. It is a time of reflection, restoration. This one month of listening to deep silence sustains me for the rest of the year until the quiet of nature returns.
November is quiet suspense. A sense of mystery creeps in as we prepare for the unknown. Sounds of critters scurrying to get ready for Winter fill the crisp air. My cats are growing their winter fur coats. What do they know that I don’t? Acorns are fatter this year. How can something the size of my thumbnail be smarter than me? We have lost our way in syncing with nature’s rhythms, everything available year-round. But November reminds us there is a time and purpose for gathering, gratitude, and turning inward. What will we need in the next few months? It is hard to guess. But we are tucking in gardens, setting out seeds for the birds, and getting out long sleeves, our equivalent of fur, from the closets. The sharp edges of cold weather outside feel delicious against the warmth of returning home, wherever that may be in this time of displacement for many. We are in the midst of a long hibernation with the approach of the hibernating season. It is disconcerting for us, this not knowing. But the animals and plants know what to do. Looking out at nature in November, I draw in a deep breath, filling my heart with patience and gratitude for what is present.
October is the delicious tension between opposites. Cool mornings followed by warm afternoons. The tingling on the surface of your skin from the crisp air contrasted with the glowing warmth of a sun patch. The sweetness of apple cider counteracted by the tartness of pomegranate seeds. The warm oranges and reds of Fall leaves standing out against the cool blue of the sky, a visual fire and water. The feeling of being fully awake in spite of the shift in seasons toward dormancy. A tinge of melancholy intermingled with all five senses feasting on the vibrancy of Fall.
October is also a time of mystery, of that which we thought was permanent suddenly shifting to ethereal. Each day is a subtle transition, a slipping between worlds that catches each sense at its fullest. Dusk seems to melt into pitch dark in minutes, we feel a need to draw closer figuratively to the fire, and for an evening our imaginations are set free on All Hallows Eve. The snick of the match closely followed by the sweet yet earthy scent of pumpkin when lighting my jack-o’-lantern is one of my favorite moments of Fall.
There is a theory that your favorite season is the one you are born into. I was born in October, and I feel most alive in Fall. It is a time to set your spirit free, let your imagination run wild, embrace each present moment.
September is a time of beginnings, tucking in, getting to work, emerging from a season of living indoors in air-conditioned hibernation. The morning light is slowly shifting toward fall. I can finally be outside again in the early hours working on my garden. It is my New Year’s celebration, much like in Ethiopia where they observe this holiday by celebrating the harvest and transitioning to a new season. This has always resonated more with me than turning the page in the dead of winter.
September is usually a time of return. People who fled the heat of the city are back in town. School is back in session. Season ticket events are gearing up. This September is different, uncertain. The cultural markers are missing but the cycles of nature are a constant. Birds are beginning their migratory journeys, squirrels are busy building up their stores for winter, bodies of water are cooling, and the contrasts of morning, afternoon, and dusk are more apparent. Look to cues of nature for your compass this year.
Despite growing up in the desert (or maybe because of it), I have always felt a kinship with trees. The sound of wind in their branches, the shade they provide, their clear structure, the cooling shades of green, and earthy scents they release all fill my soul with peace. At least once a year I head to the mountains for tree time. It is essential to my happiness.
I started practicing Korean Breath Qigong Yoga to manage stress. Breath training is an essential part of this practice and promotes the natural balance of energy, with a warm belly and cool head. At a workshop this was likened to the energy balance of a tree: a tree gathers energy from the sun in its leaves and then sends this energy to its roots. When I heard the tree analogy, I knew I was in the right place for me. In my training I learned that the form of Qigong we practice unites heaven, earth, and humanity. I feel this balance most acutely when I am out in nature.
In Qigong training, tree posture is my favorite. This posture promotes a deep sense of peace in several ways. Pressing your palms together opens up your energy channels. Strengthening your legs is akin to strengthening the trunk of a tree since strength begins in your legs, much like the trunk of a tree. Breathing in through your lower belly, then breathing out to send this energy to your legs is the same as a tree sending nutrients to its roots. Feeling your feet firmly in contact with the ground literally grounds you, anchoring you to the present moment. In these moments, I often see clearly the next step in my path. Whenever I ask a question of the universe, the response is usually this: trees are the answer.
It is so peaceful and restorative to practice tree posture out in nature. In this posture, you are aware of the sunlight on your face, the characteristics of the air around you, the sound of the birds, the branches moving in a slight wind, and the smell of the trees and earth. For me, winter is my season of renewal. In the desert, hot temperatures last well into fall. When it is finally cool again (which seems like a miracle every year), I crave moments of quiet time to reconnect with the outdoors after being in an artificial environment for nearly six months.
Mini snowman I built on a log near Strawberry, AZ
My need for spiritual time in the cool quiet is at odds with a time of year that is stressful and hectic with preparation for the holidays. One year in mid-December I decided to take off for the forest. I abandoned my plans for the day and headed north to Strawberry, Arizona. I waffled on my decision all along the drive to Highway 87, but as soon as the mountains rounded into view with their snowy peaks I knew I made the right choice and I couldn’t stop smiling. I found a spot where families were sledding and building snowmen, and walked until I found a tree that spoke to me. I stood in front of this tree and stayed in tree posture for several minutes, taking in the cold air stinging my cheeks, the texture of snow beneath my shoes, the shift to a peaceful state of being. I gave thanks for this moment, then opened my eyes. I built a small snowman on a log before heading back to my car. On the drive home, I felt full of bright energy. The curves of the road matched the pace of the music as I sang along, feeling that all was right in the world.
I got certified to teach Breath Qigong Yoga with a vision to help veterans with PTSD. Tree posture is an essential component of class. Many veterans have compressed spines, and this posture helps open up channels along the back. In addition, it promotes a peaceful state of mind and I can sense when this shift happens. There is a complete stillness, akin to being in a forest. I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the opportunity to create this peaceful environment for others, inspired by trees.
Trees in Tree Posturenear Strawberry, AZ
Try tree posture the next time you are out in nature. Stand with your feet shoulder width apart and your feet pressed into the ground. You can also do this sitting in a chair, but keep your feet flat on the ground. Bend your knees as you are able. Place your palms pressed together in front of your heart, like in prayer. Relax your neck and shoulders but keep your chin level. Close your eyes. Breathe in slowly, expanding your belly, then breathe out slowly, sending all energy to your legs. Imagine you are a tree and your legs are the trunk of your tree. Continue this process for 2-3 minutes, focusing only on your breathing, no thought, no emotion. Just breathing, connecting with your true self and nature. You will be amazed at how calm you feel and empowered to take on any challenge.
(originally published on the Association of Nature and Forest Therapy blog July 2018)
Just a few more weeks, please
Of frosty early mornings
Of the cool quiet just after dawn
Of the echoing sounds without leaves on the trees,
All bare
A few more weeks of clear thinking
Of hearing the universe softly speaking
A few more weeks to smell snow from the north
Unexpected storms, polar energy
To leave windows open, deeply asleep
To feel long sleeves on my skin
Not bare
Fall is my favorite season. It is a time for tucking in, getting to work, and gathering together. Many cultures and religions have a time of reflection and celebration akin to the New Year holiday and this resonates with me in fall. Maybe it is because I can finally function again with cooler temperatures, or maybe because I am reconnected with nature, but I feel inspired and energized as soon as fall arrives.
Coffee tastes best on a cool crisp morning. The days finally have a rhythm to them, starting off chilly, warming in the afternoon, and cooling back down at night. It is a gift to sit outside, or go on meandering walks while listening to the trees.
My five senses are fully engaged in fall. I am aware of the distinct way sound carries in the cool air with that slight echo. I clearly hear the crisp sound of leaves crunching underfoot. The snick of the match to light a candle combines with my sense of smell most keenly when lighting a jack-o’-lantern. And my hearing is tuned in to the call of owls just after day turns to dusk.
Fall brings a cornucopia of flavors. I love the tart tastes of apples, pomegranates, and cranberries. Pumpkins and other squash can be sweet or savory,
a rich variety. Soups and stews are packed with complex flavors and nutrients stored up from the summer. This is the time of year when vegetables
really shine.
Fall is a feast for the eyes. The sky is a vivid blue against the complementary colors of fall leaves. The warm reds, oranges, browns, and yellows are both energizing and nurturing. The glow of a fall leaf lit by the sun makes me feel fully alive. It is a life lesson in staying in the present moment. I appreciate nature’s design in pumpkins, leaves, and acorns.
The richness of smell is most present in fall. Scents of cinnamon, fallen leaves, wood smoke, or something simmering on the stove make me feel connected to an ancient energy that can’t be destroyed by current rhetoric. Nature will always be there.
The sense of touch is alive in fall too. Working again in the garden, picking up fall leaves and pine cones, baking, using my hands for projects all revive my sense of touch. The feel of long sleeves and layers being added or removed define time in a tactile, organic way.
Every season has a gift, and fall’s gift is a time of renewal for all five senses.
Summer is stifling, sweating, suffering, swimming, surviving. It is also monsoon season which is the only break in the monotony of searing hot days. For most of the country this is a time to luxuriate in the outdoors. Here in the desert, life is lived in an artificial environment indoors. Air conditioning is not good for the immune system yet I can’t live here without it. I am cut off from the sounds of nature and only see it through windows. This is not a time of relaxation. It is a time of survival.
When a high ridge of pressure moves in and the heat seeps through the triple-pane windows, it feels like a force in the universe is trying to put an end to my existence. I suffer when out in the heat. One hour outdoors in 95+ degrees and my nerve endings register pain. For one week after I ache all over and I can’t connect two thoughts. My schedule is upended as I race to get all errands done by 10 a.m. as the local weather anchor advises. Once home there is a small window of time to get things done before exhaustion sets in as my system prioritizes sending energy to cool my core.
Summers here are lived like winters in the rest of the country. Daily tasks require a strategy to be home before the extreme heat hits along with the maximum UV index, meaning your skin will burn within 15 minutes. The stinging sensation is palpable even when in a car with tinted windows. Energy bars are liquified by the time I cross the parking lot. Forget chocolate or ice cream.
What is left of my garden gets watered at odd hours, ideally when the sun is not out. Because the plumbing runs through the attic, water out of the cold tap is hot most of the day and well into the night. Laundry on cold has to be done very early in the day or with ice cubes in the washing machine.
It used to cool off in the evenings, giving the body a break overnight. Not so now. The resulting heat island effect from greedy development means that heat is trapped in all concrete and paved-over surfaces, radiating back into the atmosphere at night. There used to be a few tough weeks. Now it is a few tough months. Five months is a lot to ask of my air conditioner, electric bill, patience, and immune system.
There are only two good things about summers in the desert: swimming and monsoon storms. The 4th of July usually involves competing fireworks: patriotic celebrations and lightning inside storm clouds. I can see the progression of a storm as thunder clouds build up during the day. The smell of rain in the distance is tantalizing, though storms often fizzle out at the city outskirts. I love a good thunder and lightning show, even if I yelp after a solid strike and boom of thunder. Haboobs, or dust storms, are more sinister. They are a blizzard of dust and extremely dangerous when encountered on a road trip.
Every season has a gift, but all I can say for this one is eventually it will be fall.
I struggle with spring. Moments of optimism can shift to irritation as rapidly as the wind direction in tornado alley. Twenty-degree temperature swings mean long sleeves in the morning, short sleeves in the afternoon, and then getting the air moving in the stifling early evening, confusing my immune system. I am wary of the Ides of March and feel at odds with everything that week. At this time of year it is important to take time for rest and to spend time in a relaxing setting. When you are relaxed your immune system can better handle stresses like allergies. For me relaxing is sitting outside listening to nature and what I hear most clearly is the wind in the trees.
Spring is the soft wind that rustles the branches of the citrus and pine trees in my backyard. This sound always comforts me because it is an aural reminder of how nature is interconnected. A wind that originates in Canada in a climate vastly different from here finds its way to the desert, a reminder that there are forces at work greater than I can comprehend. The particular sound of wind in pine needles is soft while citrus leaves moved by the wind have their own distinct sound, more staccato. At this time of year I relate to R.E.M.’s Half A World Away: “The storm it came up strong/It shook the trees and blew away our fear.”
Spring in the desert is a last call for cool weather. There can be winter storms in the north through early May. I know when it is snowing without looking at a weather map. There is a particular velocity and quality to the wind, and I can smell the snow in the air. I savor these moments and drink in the cool sensation on my skin before the heat arrives. I open all doors and windows to let the cool air circulate one more time before summer.
At this time of year plants that were damaged by the frost have grown back new leaves. The earth in my garden is easy to work with and I am surrounded by a kaleidoscope of scents as the sun warms up the environment around me. It is a time to be outdoors though the moodiness of the weather requires flexibility in planning. There is something magical about walking outside after an indoor event in the evening and feeling air that has cooled down, fragrant with orange blossoms. This time of year is perfect for driving at night while listening to music with the windows rolled down. I can feel when I’m driving through the older areas of the city where established trees are fed by irrigation and the cooler temperatures and humidity from the trees is palpable. As soon as I drive into the paved-over sections, this feeling evaporates. I am drawn to stringed instruments in spring such as guitars and mandolins, the music of Appalachia, Alison Krauss + Union Station, or R.E.M. I’m not sure why.
Spring is a time to start watching for nests and parent birds scouting out the best nest locations. I was surprised one morning to find several quail eggs hidden in the pot of geraniums and snapdragons. Every morning two more appeared until there were 13 altogether. I helped some of the chicks out of the tall pot, their feet so soft against my palms. Another year a hummingbird constructed a nest in the pine tree. Yet another year a nest was discovered in the lemon tree. Each nest has distinct construction techniques, some executed better than others.
Amidst unpredictability, spring’s gift is the wind that moves life into a season of renewal.
Winter is my time of quiet and regeneration. It is a time to be silent and listen. To beautiful music, to the sounds of nature most clearly heard on an overcast day, to what the universe is trying to tell me. It is the time of year when I feel my soul relax and I am most connected with my true self. Something in me is drawn to the north, and this is felt most keenly in winter.
Winter is the reward for enduring summers in the southwest. It seems impossible that I will ever feel the cold again, and when it returns I savor it. Just as trees and plants have a dormant season, we also have a need for rest and quiet.
In the early morning, I see rising steam dancing on the water like the northern lights. I take in more clearly what I see around me. I love how the lower angle of the sun picks up the warm tones of the walls until noon, and gives the remaining leaves on the trees a glow that is only seen this time of year. No matter the outside temperature, this view of the trees makes me want to stay close to
the fire and tuck in. Every season has a gift, and winter’s gift is quiet.
Coffee tastes best on a cool crisp morning. The days finally have a rhythm to them, starting off chilly, warming in the afternoon, and cooling back down at night. It is a gift to sit outside, or go on meandering walks while listening to the trees.
Fall is a feast for the eyes. The sky is a vivid blue against the complementary colors of fall leaves. The warm reds, oranges, browns, and yellows are both energizing and nurturing. The glow of a fall leaf lit by the sun makes me feel fully alive. It is a life lesson in staying in the present moment. I appreciate nature’s design in pumpkins, leaves, and acorns.
Spring is a time to start watching for nests and parent birds scouting out the best nest locations. I was surprised one morning to find several quail eggs hidden in the pot of geraniums and snapdragons. Every morning two more appeared until there were 13 altogether. I helped some of the chicks out of the tall pot, their feet so soft against my palms. Another year a hummingbird constructed a nest in the pine tree. Yet another year a nest was discovered in the lemon tree. Each nest has distinct construction techniques, some executed better than others.
Winter is the reward for enduring summers in the southwest. It seems impossible that I will ever feel the cold again, and when it returns I savor it. 