I do not remember this photo – who took it, where, when – but I can guess. I was probably about five years old, and my paternal grandmother, Lorez, almost certainly was the photographer. On her visits, Lorez always brought what I deemed to be fancy clothes for me to wear. And she always put me into ladylike poses that were entirely alien to my nature. Note the stiff posture and the clasped hands – that was never me. But I can see my happiness – in the eyes more than the mouth. Most of all I can see I am happy because I am among friends – members of the Green World that have been my companions from my earliest memories.

This happy child is standing among a towering field of broom sedge (Andropogon virginiana). Behind her are oak trees still holding on to most of their leaves despite the chill evidenced by my scarf and jacket. Such places were common in rural North Carolina in the 1960s. Abandoned farmlands returning to field, then forest, were everywhere.

I’ve always loved the way stands of rust-brown broom sedge rattle in winter winds, providing cover for birds and small mammals foraging within their shelter. I love the way I can see this child’s happy soul, surrounded by friends as she poses for her grandmother.

I believe all children, especially the youngest ones, show the light of their pure souls to the world every moment. The light they bring into the world hasn’t been darkened, or worse, extinguished. They greet every day with joy, and any adult with all but the most hardened heart can’t help but feel lighter around these glowing souls.

This solstice in my hemisphere is all about the return of the light of the sun. Nights grow shorter, days grow warmer, slumbering earth wakens to bird song and spring flowers. But we don’t need to wait for light’s return. We carry Light within us always.

Call it heart, or soul, or whatever you like, but I am certain every child enters the world equipped with a sacred spark of Divine Light and a plan for their soul’s work. I have been fortunate. Despite dark times, my Green World allies ensured that I always had enough light to see my way back to their embrace. I feel certain that my ever-deepening knowledge of the Green World was always meant to be shared with others. I take the work seriously – writing and speaking to those who want to understand the native plants and animals of the Southeastern Piedmont, where I have lived and gardened since I was a small child with an open heart.

As my part of Mother Earth begins to tilt her face toward Old Sol’s light, I am deepening that commitment by writing a book describing what I have learned about gardening in my region for over half a century. In it, I recount how my gardening approach changed as the environment changed around me and my awareness of threats to native flora and fauna grew more alarming. Embedded within my story are ecological principles that explain the lessons I learned the hard way. Every chapter includes a section offering concrete steps that property owners can take to create vibrantly healthy green worlds of their own. My hope is to reduce the frustrations of trial-and-error gardening for new or less experienced gardeners. A description of a favorite plant or group of plants concludes each chapter.

My goal for the book is to empower anyone from anywhere with the knowledge they need to work effectively with my beloved Southeastern Piedmont environment, reducing frustrations and creating beauty while also providing healthy habitat for native flora and fauna. Two publishers asked for proposals but eventually declined to publish my book. Thus, barring unforeseen developments, I’ll be self-publishing. Right now, I’m still writing, and then I must figure out the best publishing option, so my book won’t be available for a while yet. But one way or another, I am determined that my soul’s work is going to see the light of day.

On this Winter Solstice, I invite my readers to contemplate their inner lights. If that feels difficult, try gazing into the eyes of photos of your child selves, or perhaps the eyes of your children or grandchildren. Have you unintentionally allowed your light to dim? Perhaps it is time to reawaken your light as Sol reawakens Mother Earth. I think we can all agree that more Light will benefit all of us.

Happy Winter Solstice.

As I pondered our seasonal turn to winter, this fell out of my fingers. Happy Solstice to all.

Solstice Prayer

Light a candle against the darkness.

Light a fire, watch it burn.

Beneath the warmth of extra blankets,

dream deeply as the seasons turn.

Feel the light always within you,

your connection to the divine.

Like roots beneath a forest,

we are all intertwined.

Plant dream seeds in the moonlight.

Your heart knows they will grow.

A spring garden of beauty and love awaits you

when it is time to reap what we sow.

The word solstice comes to us originally from Latin and translates as stopped (or stationary) sun, because to humans watching the bright star that powers life here, it seemed that twice a year at the onset of astronomical winter and summer, our star ceased its travels across the sky, pausing as if to collect itself before continuing its annual journey. Following Old Sol’s example seems a wise course to me, and so at these times of stillness, I also try to pause and collect myself.

As I review my time on this planet to date, I recall moments of great personal hardship as well as times of profound joy. For me, the thread that runs through all of it is the Green World. I cannot remember a time when I lost that connection, and I attribute that tie to any semblance of sanity I retain.

As Sol pauses today to welcome Winter and Summer to their respective earthly hemispheres, I will make my Winter Wish, the same prayer I’ve made for decades. I pray that human hearts everywhere open themselves more fully to Light’s return, welcoming with love every soul they encounter, be it human, fauna, or flora.

I invite you, my readers, to still yourselves today, at least long enough to visualize your Winter Wish. Dream big, my friends; these visions will power our future.

My offering to you this Winter Solstice is a small poem that fell out of my fingers when I prepared this post.

Moon on Dec. 19, 2020

Growing Toward Light

As suffering surrounds us,

as isolation limits us to tenuous electronic connections,

it is easy to believe that Darkness is winning.

I promise you, it is not.

Darkness is not the enemy,

merely the other side of Light.

Inextricably connected,

the dance between them powers everything.

Step outside of yourself.

Walk barefoot on cold ground,

inhale pine-scented, rain-chilled air.

Greet the birds by name.

Caress tight-coiled buds of trees

deep in winter meditation.

Feel the centering stillness,

the slowed rhythms of life.

All dwell in Winter’s Darkness

while growing toward Spring’s Light.

Happy Winter Solstice!

Light has been hard to come by lately.

Perhaps the message of the longest night of the year is to stop trying to flee the darkness, instead, following the example of the great canopy trees, casting off artifice – the leaves of summer – and spending this season stretching roots into life-giving earth, taking time to deepen my connection to that which sustains me.

I need this quiet season. It brings me back to center after the frenzy of planting, weeding, harvesting, and reveling in the vibrant life that surrounds me during warmer times. Winter precipitation – frozen or liquid – pulls me into contemplation, forcing me to a slower tempo as I watch snowflakes or raindrops fall on brown leaves piled beneath bared branches.

In cold darkness, melodies emerge: the sonorous tones of a barred owl calling its mate, a staccato crash and splash as deer test ice covering the creek, distant howls of hungry coyotes. Winter rhythms slow heartbeats, deepen breathing, center souls.

On this longest night, I will pull warm blankets over my head and dream of swimming in deep oceans, flying soundlessly over frozen moonlit ground, dancing around ancient bonfires, remembering that I need darkness to see the light.

May this winter season bring us all comfort and joy.

Happy Winter Solstice.

How many times do we hear it? “I hate winter,” they all say. It starts on the morning TV newscast when the meteorologist warns of an impending cold front that will drop temperatures below freezing – or worse yet – bring frozen precipitation. Immediately, everyone but the meteorologist begins whining about ice-related inconveniences, sudden imposed constrictions on their normal routines. The morning meteorologist tries to laugh off the comments, speaking softly about the wonders of snow, but she is inevitably shouted down.

To my mind, the complainers have all lost their natural rhythm; they are no longer tied to the earth that nurtures us all. The only person in sync with the cycles of sun and moon, the turning of the earth, the waxing and waning of seasons is the meteorologist. The nature of her job is to remain aligned with the rhythmic dance of air masses and atmospheric currents of moisture and temperature. She appreciates this complex interweaving of forces responsible for what she calls weather – what I call the pulsating rhythms of Mother Earth.

Chive bed in winter

Ecologists and psychologists have a name for this disconnect between humans and the blue-green orb on which we all rely: Nature Deficit Disorder. Myriad studies confirm that stress levels are measurably reduced when people step deliberately back onto green spaces, soft earth, places where traffic noise is replaced by bird songs and the sounds of moving water.

Like meteorologists, gardeners still connect with earth’s rhythms. We celebrate and honor every season by embracing it, performing the tasks designed to maximize the benefits of spring, summer, fall, and yes, winter. We know that without winter, growing seasons would be much less productive, pests and diseases would overwhelm our gardens, bulbs and many seeds would not bloom or even germinate. Seasonal transformation is the music we all dance to, whether we feel those rhythms as we pull long carrots from rich earth or ignore them as we push relentlessly through daily routines in concrete and glass edifices that prevent sunlight from touching asphalt or the weary souls scurrying on shadowy sidewalks.

I welcome the Winter Solstice. For me, it is the true onset of the new year, not January 1. That’s an artificial construct disconnected from earth’s rhythms. Today is a day to stop what you are doing, step out into chilly air, and acknowledge the essential and sacred rhythms of our planet, the music every bird and bug, spider and snake, and human being dances to, whether or not they choose to acknowledge it.

Morning moon on this Winter Solstice eve

Winter Solstice occurs at 4:55 a.m. EST tomorrow, December 21. Those of us lucky enough in this world to be blessed with adequate food, shelter, and safety are mostly fixated on the holiday season that culminates (for many) with New Year’s Eve celebrations in less than two weeks. These often family-focused upcoming days can be wonderful affirmations of our connections to kin and home, and I wish all of my readers the very merriest of holidays.

But before these happy times occur, we celebrate an older tradition born from earlier centuries, when the sun’s presence – and absence – was deemed critical to the survival of everyone. On the darkest, longest night of the year, bonfires were built, prayers were chanted, and the sky was anxiously scanned for signs of dawn’s new light – the return of the sun, of life – of hope.

Light is often equated with hope, and darkness with despair. But today I invite you to consider the yin-yang of things – that dark and light are not opposites between which we must choose. Rather, they are parts of a whole, and perhaps holding too tightly to only half is contributing to the current state of our planet.

Green light emerging from dark earth.

The dark can be a scary place, there’s no denying, but it is also critical to the life cycles of all living creatures. Most seeds require a dark meditation period in the embrace of earth before they germinate and reach for the light above. Roots of plants great and small embrace the darkness, drawing sustenance from it. Myriad creatures including microscopic bacteria and fungi, worm-hunting moles, root-nibbling voles, and bug-hunting salamanders all dwell happily in the darkness of earth. These darkness dwellers are essential to the survival of those of us who prefer the light. We need each other, and we need to understand each other.

I fervently wish I had an easy solution to this dark-versus-light crisis currently clutching our planet in a near stranglehold. But we humans are complex creatures, and attempts to oversimplify reality are not helpful. Thus, I have recently spent a good bit of time pondering what actions I can take myself to create more balance in my world. Of course, being a devoted lover of the Green World, I pondered ways I might be able to bring more balance – and love – to the natural world I see under assault everywhere I look.

In the new year, I hope to share some of what I’ve been reading and thinking about, but today I want to leave you with some of the many signs of hope I have recently encountered as I have been searching for ways to facilitate balance in my world.

Shelter for the homeless

• A local church blessed with acreage has dedicated their space to serving the homeless – humans and native plants and animals – by building spaces on their land that will serve those groups, creating a green, safe sanctuary that will shelter and heal bodies and spirits.
• A local high school has committed over the last few years to a native landscape, creating beautiful, diverse plantings around their buildings. And now they have begun planting a forest where a vast expanse of sterile Bermuda grass lawn once dominated. Row by row, native oaks are lovingly planted, and site-appropriate smaller natives are tucked around and between the young saplings. The man leading this transformation estimates it will take about 20 years for trees to become young forest, the Bermuda grass to vanish, the natives – plant and animal – to make homes in the new landscape. But the manifestation of the vision is underway – vibrant life from sterile lawn, light from darkness.
• Several groups of local citizens are beginning to tackle the enormous task of reclaiming their neighborhood greenways. Long-dominated by aggressive invasive non-native plant species, these recreational corridors are in many areas entirely dominated by a mix of non-native thugs that have outcompeted the natives that were there first, degrading essential habitats that native animals rely on for survival in an increasingly urbanized region. One stretch of greenway at a time, these groups plan to establish the light of a balanced, native landscape from the dark snarl of invasive plants that currently dominate these corridors.

Non-native English ivy strangling a native dogwood

That’s only a sample of what I’ve learned about activities going on in just my little corner of southeastern piedmont. But what I have also learned is that similar projects are emerging all across the United States. It seems to this lover of the Green World that many of us have reached a similar conclusion about the current state of our planet. To bring light from darkness, we must act locally. One project at time – one bonfire at a time – we are creating green light from darkness.

On the long, dark night of this Winter Solstice eve, I invite all my readers to take a few moments to reflect on what you are doing to bring light to our planet. Whether you choose to act on behalf of the Green World or perhaps one of the many other causes or disenfranchised groups in desperate need of your light and energy, I think the important thing here is to act.

Embrace the darkness; see the kernel of light always within it. Build your bonfire, and light up night’s sky.

Happy Winter Solstice!

Just before midnight tonight, the winter solstice will mark the astronomical onset of winter in my hemisphere of Earth. My region has barely experienced cold weather, much less snow, so far this “winter,” but tonight that season begins, so I welcome it with the above photo from a previous year.

For three seasons, my little corner of piedmont shelters beneath tall, leafy canopy trees that keep it cooler than surrounding open areas. But that closed green canopy also means I cannot see the sky above the treetops very clearly. Light is softened, muted by lush vegetation and thick humidity. But during the month approaching the winter solstice, and for a few months that follow it, light dominates the landscape with its presence — and its absence.

After prolonged, dark nights, pastel masterpieces usher in the sun as it reluctantly pulls itself above the horizon. But the sun seems to know this is not its season, for it soon rushes west, bringing early darkness. Prolonged winter nights dazzle us with stars, and in its changing phases, the moon. In my landscape, winter is the season of the moon, which lingers even as dawn begins to subtly brighten the sky.

Even the thinnest of crescent moons persists as dawn light appears.

And full moons transform winter nights completely. Dark nights vanish, illuminated by this bright satellite that follows me from room to room, casting shadows across the floor, negating any need for a lamp when I wander the house after midnight, made restless by its potent light. I am often wakened by winter full moons; no blind or curtain seems able to suppress their power.

This Christmas will be celebrated beneath a full moon — the first time this has happened in 38 years. I pray the power of this potent light will illuminate all the dark places in the souls of humanity, bringing hope and peace to the millions now suffering. May the moon bring you comfort during winter’s longest night, as its light promises the greater power of a summer sun.

Happy Winter Solstice!

Happy Winter Solstice, friends. Tonight the darkness is most prolonged, but then the Earth turns us slowly round to Spring light and another growing season. Personally, I love this time of year. To acknowledge this astronomical event, I’ve attempted a little poem. Apologies in advance to any real poets out there.

I Know Where the Sun Is

A pink streak outlines the eastern ridge;
bare tree trunks become black outlines.
Pink morphs to deeper mauve.
Mauve morphs to crimson and climbs the sky,
revealing the outline of every intertwining branch in the canopy.

Eastern crimson sends out pink tentacles to the southern horizon,
a thin line demarcating earth and air.
Creek water reflects red sky;
ripples of fire trail paddling wood ducks.
They know where the sun is.

As sky pales to orange, then gold,
White-throated sparrows sing a melancholy greeting.
They know where the sun is.

Advancing western clouds warm from pink to orange
before they engulf the glowing orb just rising above the ridge.
Winter gray wins the morning,
but that’s okay,
because I know where the sun is.

Every fat flower bud shelters its light.
Every green winter leaf finds its power,
even on dim days when humans growl at the clouds.

Winter darkness,
winter starkness
does not worry me.
I don’t need to build a solstice bonfire
to ensure the sun’s return.

Bird and bud,
Earth and air,
Spinning blue-green world
dancing in a sea of stars.
They don’t need human intervention.

I am just a speck in an infinite universe,
but I know where the sun is.

Happy Winter Solstice to all!

For Food

One of the great pleasures of gardening for me is the delicious food I grow. From seed to harvest, I control what goes into these beauties, and food I grow myself always tastes better than anyone else’s. Growing my own food almost always ensures I’ll have extras to share. It’s a good feeling to drop off a load of excess tomatoes and squash at my local food bank, or gift a foodie friend with a taste she will never otherwise enjoy.

For Wildlife

Attracting pollinators makes sense when you’re trying to grow food requiring pollination, but I work hard to create habitat that’s inviting to a diversity of creatures. From butterflies:

to dragonflies:

to lizards:

and spiders:

and even the occasional wild turkey.

All are welcome on my five-acre patch of Piedmont.

For Beauty

I am not handy with a needle and thread, paintbrush, potter’s wheel, or any other artist’s tool. But I think we all share the urge to create beauty. Of course, I’m not really the creator of this magic, but I like to think of myself as a collaborator. I work hard to put the right plant in the right place, ensuring that every addition has the best chance possible to thrive and be beautiful.

For the Surprises

The little guy above was enjoying unseasonably mild temperatures yesterday, catching a few rays on the dark wall of my garage. I confess seeing a little head poking out at me from beneath the siding startled me a bit. Most of the surprises are courtesy of the creatures with whom I share my space.

Surprises bring out the child in me, the wonder of finding something new and unexpected, like a Luna Moth:

a Rainbow Scarab:

or a Snapping Turtle lumbering across the floodplain in search of a good spot to lay her eggs.

Each discovery makes me giggle like a girl, delighted to greet an unexpected wonder during my wanderings around the yard.

For Connectedness

Plunging my hands into fragrant, loamy earth centers me. Coaxing seeds in flats in the greenhouse during chilly late winter days ties me to the coming growing season while winds howl and frozen ground crunches beneath my feet.

For Reassurance through the Constancy of Change

Staying close to the cycles of the earth, from spring’s fresh enthusiasm:

to summer’s overwhelming productivity:

to autumn’s glorious farewell displays:

to winter’s quiet, meditative landscapes.

I am immersed in Life’s cycles, making it easier for me to remember that even the most horrible acts of mankind will not stop the Earth’s turning, the green growing. Life overcomes and persists. Sunrises follow sunsets. I am comforted by the changing constancy that surrounds me.

The longest night approaches. Tomorrow’s sunrise will bring our shortest day, as the solstice ushers in Winter’s light.  As a gardener, I know this dark, cold season is as necessary to the Green World as springtime.

Embrace the darkness, my friends. Tomorrow marks the return of lengthening days and the promise of spring songs and flowers. Meanwhile, enjoy the beauty that only a winter sunrise can offer.