Grief, Grace, and the Turning of the Year

Dear friends,

As the days grow shorter and the air turns cool and fragrant with cedar and rain, I find myself feeling both tender and grateful. This time of year has a way of stirring something deep — a mix of beauty and melancholy, joy and grief. I’ve been thinking about what we’re all carrying right now, about how we hold our losses with grace, and where we find hope when the world feels heavy.

When I walk the trails here at the Whidbey Institute, I notice how the forest shows us what to do. The maples let go of their brilliance without regret. The earth receives it all, turning what falls into nourishment for what will come next. It reminds me that grief, too, can be a kind of compost — something that, when tended with care, becomes the soil for new beginnings.

November comes softly, cloaked in mist. The last of the leaves flutter down, releasing their hold on the branches that bore them. The world exhales, and we feel that same slow breath within ourselves — the pause before winter, the invitation to listen deeply. This is the season when the earth teaches us about surrender, about the art of
letting go with quiet dignity.

As the year leans toward its close, we may find ourselves grieving — for the people we’ve lost, for dreams that did not take root, for a planet trembling under the weight of so much longing. Grief, at its heart, is love that has nowhere to go. It asks to be honored, not hurried. It reminds us that to be alive is to care so deeply that loss can undo us.

At the Whidbey Institute, we walk alongside the forest as it sheds its brilliance. The maples release their fire, the ferns curl in on themselves, and the soil waits in a hush of trust. Nature shows us how to hold grief gracefully — not to deny it, but to let it compost into wisdom. In the stillness, something begins to root again.

Hope, too, takes many forms. It is not always bright or bold; sometimes it is simply the soft persistence of dawn returning. It is the moss that glows green even in the rain, the laughter that rises at a shared meal, the circle of people gathered by candlelight, telling the truth about what hurts and what heals. It is a single bird singing into the fog, believing in the sun she cannot yet see.

Here, in community, we practice the tender alchemy of transforming sorrow into song. We grieve together, and somehow that makes the weight lighter. We listen to the earth, and she whispers back that nothing is ever truly lost — only changing form. The fallen leaf becomes soil. The dark becomes a seedbed. The ending carries within it the beginning we have not yet imagined.

As this year folds itself into memory, may we find grace in the turning. May we tend the embers of our hope, even on the rainiest of days. And may we remember, as the forest remembers, that renewal is written into the pattern of things.

Let us walk gently into the closing months — hearts open, spirits grounded, ready to meet both our grief and our gratitude with equal reverence. Nature is still here, holding us in her patient arms, reminding us that life, in all its beauty and ache, continues.

With love,
Rose

 A Closing Reflection

As you move through this season, take a quiet moment to ask yourself:
What are you letting go of?
What is bringing you hope?

Allow yourself to feel whatever arises — even the ache of grief. It is not a weakness but a sacred sign of love. In this shared turning of the year, may we honor what has been, soften into what is, and gather ourselves for what is yet to come.