Field Notes of a Wanderer

Dear Wanderer,

Tonight, the air is steeped in quiet, a cold expectancy that stretches across the fields and settles deep into the bones of the earth. The temperature will fall to 24 degrees, and I can only wonder how the morning will rise—what shape the light will take, what story the wind will carry. The promise of 42 degrees and a shining sun feels distant now, a whisper of warmth waiting beyond the veil of night.

I prepare for tomorrow, by gathering the tools of noticing: my field notes, a microscope for what lies hidden, pens to trace the patterns of what I see, and books whose pages carry the voice of the wild. These companions speak of holly berries and winter wrens, of the beauty waiting in bare branches and the silence of open spaces. They guide me, yes, but the truth is, nothing can fully prepare one for the moment when sunlight spills over the horizon and the world exhales its first breath.

Lately, these moments of preparation feel even more sacred. In the stillness of home, while tending to my daughter’s needs, I’ve found the rhythm of walking again. Simple walks around the neighborhood have become windows to wonder—an old love sparked anew. This time, though, I am not alone. My sweet Luci, my black-and-white Border Collie, is my eager companion. Together, we wander the quiet streets, her joyful energy urging me forward, her curious spirit reminding me to see the world afresh.

There is a holiness to this winter waiting, a sacred invitation to slow, to rest, and to listen. The earth, stripped bare, asks us to do the same: to let go of the unnecessary and cradle what remains. What is essential becomes clear in this season ~ light, air, warmth, and stillness. I reach for my journal, and my pen feels like a bird wing, fragile yet steady, tracing gratitude and wonder across the lines of the page.

Sundays in December are sanctuaries of simplicity. They call us to be present, to marvel at the small, holy things we often overlook: the glow of morning sun on a frostless field, the whisper of a bird’s wings in the still air, the quiet rhythm of breath filling our lungs.

Chrysi

What small, sacred moments will you cradle tomorrow?

©️ 2024 Christina Whalen