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The snow melted out here last weekend.  I watch the grass, once compressed by the weight of the snow, dance with air again and find a lightness.

And I too feel a lightness.

I imagine the grass feels like it can breathe again as the breeze blows through each blade rising into the sky.

And I too feel like I can breathe again.

The same weekend the snow melted, we had our first taste of rain this year.  The delicate sound woke me up in the middle of the night.  It took me a moment to realize what I was hearing as each drop hit the window pane — a sound I haven’t heard since late summer last year.  I remember that moment of realization and the most gentle smile finding its way across my lips.  It felt as though the rain woke me up because she knows how much I love that sound.  I smile thinking about it now.

I’ve been spending time out here since spring of last year, and officially living here since the end of summer.  One of the biggest things I’ve noticed in this time is yet another layer of nature, the seasons, and Earth’s rhythms alive in my being.  The environment we spend time in has an impact on who we are.

I’m not a reflection of city lights.

I’m not a reflection of the machine.

I’m not a reflection of ‘busy’.

I’m a reflection of the sound of birds in the morning.

I’m a reflection of clear skies and visible stars.

I’m a reflection of the owls that shows up in the spring, and the fireflies and frogs in the summer.

I’m a reflection of the grazing horses, and deer, and coyotes yipping into the night.


As we move into another season, I reflect back on me as winter, a me that cocooned, a me that honoured my no, a me that rested deeply.  And I look forward to the me that is going to feel spring in my being in new ways I’ve never felt.  Moving out here was unexpected and uncertain, yet hearing the whispers and songs from the Earth, that I know she could only share with me out here, has been a most cherished gift.

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