What Remembers Us: Notes from Winter Stillness is a three-part reflection on rest as relationship. Moving through snow-covered cities, ancient trees by the ocean, fog, and an unseasonably warm winter day, this series explores how memory lives not only in us, but around us — in what breaks and is mended, in water and roots, in the quiet ways we are witnessed when we slow enough to notice. These are not instructions for wintering, but notes for listening.

The final Stillness Ranger post closes the winter sequence with a return home through fog, uncertainty, and an unexpectedly warm day in the heart of winter. A reflection on integration rather than answers, on carrying stillness across places, and on being tied together by mystery and ease as seasons quietly shift.

Arriving in Mexico after snow and cities, this second Stillness Ranger post reflects on winter rest as remembrance. Set between ancient treetops and the ocean’s edge, it explores how memory lives not only in water, but in roots, patience, and presence. A meditation on arrival, being witnessed, and what it means to be tied together by more than one kind of remembering.

Winter begins not in stillness, but in motion — between snow-covered cities and a quiet encounter with Yoko Ono’s “Mend Piece” along Lake Michigan. This first Stillness Ranger post of the winter season reflects on broken porcelain, an old tattoo, a friendship that slowly unraveled, and what winter teaches us about care that doesn’t rush toward wholeness. A meditation on repair, memory, and letting rest become a collaborator rather than a condition to overcome.

This summer, I went to the woods. Alone, mostly. Not to escape, but to return. To breath. To soul. To slowness.

The Stillness Season: Letters from the Catskills is a collection of vignettes written in the quiet of my own return—love notes to stillness, solitude, and presence.

Come linger with me in the hush between the trees.

Each evening, as the light deepened and the trees seemed to glow from within, I remembered what it meant to belong to a place—and to myself. This is a story about rootedness. About dusk. About sitting still and letting the sky speak.

No service. No WiFi. Just me, the fire tower trail, and my own instincts growing louder. Sometimes solitude is the clearest mirror. Sometimes the woods remind you: Be stubborn about what you want for yourself. – Ehime Ora

I used to avoid the rain. Now I walk into it, letting the canopy drip and the mist settle. Even fog has clarity when you stop resisting. This vignette is for the grey days and the quiet lessons they bring.

365 days later, my mother returned to her survivor’s tree at Alder Lake. This time, she walked stronger. Slower. Wiser. This story is about healing. About legacy. About the strength that doesn’t need to shout.

Cold plunges. Bald eagles. Dance-offs. Shared paella. The Beaverkill reminded me that community doesn’t need planning—just presence. Sometimes joy will interrupt you. Let it.

The eagles came first as surprise, then as signposts. By the final weeks, they soared daily, reminding me: lead from a higher view. This is a vignette about watching the sky and listening for leadership lessons in the wind.

They visited six, seven, sometimes eight at a time—these tiny teachers of beauty and endurance. The day I found one passed, I buried it and honored its legacy in a yoga flow. This is a love letter to the hummingbirds.

In my final days, I stopped planning and started lingering. I sang terribly in the car. Painted memories with my fingers. Stayed at the creek just a little longer. This is a story about not rushing the goodbye.

Stillness doesn’t mean stopping. It means remembering. This series is my way home. Thank you for walking with me. For pausing here. For finding your own breath inside these letters. May you return to your soul skin again and again.

We gather in the hush before the bloom. In a room held not by walls, but by the soft, unshakable hands of our foremothers— who stitched freedom into lullabies and planted vision into soil they could not stay to tend.

She asked, “What will be ordinary for them that is revolutionary for you today?” You paused. Softened your gaze. Breathed deeply for some time.

Your heart responds: “One day, a daughter will walk through this garden and feel your footsteps in the soil.“

So I met a birder named Earl today.
We stood in quiet awe beneath a scarlet tanager—its red body glowing like a secret. The northern flicker drummed nearby, and a red-tailed hawk circled overhead, just as it had before I left for a week of holding space for beloved community by the water.

The park had changed in that time. So had I.
Transformation doesn’t always come loud. Sometimes it arrives gently—on wings, in silence, in bloom.

This week, I’m learning (again) that:
🌿 All that you touch, you change. (Thank you Octavia!)
🌿 Patience is part of the process.
🌿 Abundance can begin with a breath.

The river was never truly frozen. A month ago, a thick layer of snow and ice masked its surface, giving the illusion of stillness. But beneath the layers, the water was moving—relentless, powerful, alive. No matter how much snow covers it, no matter how still it appears, the river moves. It carves its own path, leaving an imprint on the land that cannot be undone. It is patient but unstoppable, yielding yet undeniable.

As spring begins later this week, the natural world around us is waking up. The energy of the season is palpable, pulling us out of hibernation. The pace of life seems to quicken overnight—calendars fill, to-do lists stretch longer, and the urgency to emerge, create, and produce is strong. March, in particular, always feels like it moves faster than I expect. I blink, and suddenly, the season is in full swing. But how do we resist the pressure to bloom before we are ready? How do we find stillness in the Ramble of life’s transitions?

Winter is the season when the trees teach us the most about patience, resilience, and quiet preparation. Stripped bare of their leaves, they stand as silhouettes against the sky—unapologetically still, deeply rooted, and conserving energy for the seasons ahead. In their dormancy, they are not idle; they are storing resources, deepening their roots, and preparing for the inevitable return of spring. Too often, mainstream narratives equate rest with stagnation, slowing down with failure, and stillness with an absence of growth. But trees remind us that winter is a necessary pause—one that is rich with unseen transformation. Their roots extend further into the earth, strengthening their foundation. Their branches, though bare, still stretch toward the sky, holding space for what’s to come.