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.

The final week of January arrives with its quiet light, offering us the possibility to begin again. The horizon—where sky meets earth—is not just a distant line; it’s a reminder that the future, though unseen, is waiting to unfold.

“This,” I thought to myself, “is perhaps the greatest lesson of snowfall — the power of nature's mystery to offer healing.” To let playfulness and quiet co-exist. To be held, even briefly, in the arms of both gratitude and sorrow, possibility and loss. And perhaps, as the snow melts, we will remember how to hold those truths long after the last flake has disappeared.

On this chilly New York morning, I'm remembering the quiet embrace of Mexico's Pacific Coast. Under the warm hues of a setting sun, I witnessed an ancient ritual—the release of baby sea turtles into the ocean. These tiny, vulnerable creatures, no larger than my palm, carried with them the weight of ancestral wisdom and the boundless possibility of their futures. Watching them, I felt deeply connected to the timeless rhythms of nature and the lessons it offers to us, if only we pause to listen.

As the final evening of this calendar year nears, I’m sitting in the memories of 2024 and lessons of the birch tree.  I sit back in reflection, gratitude, and ease writing and repeating these words: May I remember gratitude for the path that led me here. For the opportunities I followed. For all that I have overcome. For the lessons I have learned. May I remember gratitude for everything that has helped me to grow. Evolve. Reach for more. May I remember gratitude for all of the previous versions of me. And all of the versions I’ve yet to meet. With love, curiosity, and intention, I remember the future. I remember what is to come with gratitude. Gratitude for the opportunity for a new day. The chance to evolve, to learn, to create. To shape a joyful life and world around me. One seed and intention at a time.