In The Deep Mid-Winter
Recently, I've been hearing the phrase, “It’s been a long year already,” and I felt that in my bones. And yet, February carries its own quiet magic and hope.
This is the season of Imbolc, an ancient Celtic time that honors growth in the darkness, the patience required when life is still unseen, and the grace of becoming amid uncertainty. The air may remain cold, but the Earth is already preparing to bear new life. If you look closely, you can see the signs everywhere: hellebore bursting into bloom, bulbs pressing upward through frozen soil, green tips daring their way toward the light. Nature reminds us that good things take time.
Here at the Whidbey Institute, the Land is preparing too. Our gardeners are ordering seeds and tending beds for the coming season. The Place Team is clearing brush, repairing old buildings, and walking the trails with care. The office is full of the kind of “invisible work” that keeps everything moving — planning, coordinating, imagining, preparing. Soon, guests will return to the Land, programs will fill the calendar, and the familiar rhythm of the season will begin again.
And beyond the Institute, I see this same quiet work unfolding across the world. People deepening community. Standing up for each other. Caring for one another. Creating solutions. Building scaffolding for a more hopeful future. Hope, I believe, is not passive. It is an active practice — a choice to keep showing up, to roll up our sleeves, to participate in the healing of the world.
Still, alongside the work, we must also remember to pause. To breathe. To walk among trees. To place a hand on bark and feel the steadiness of living things. To give thanks. To tend the gardens of our own lives with as much care as we offer the world. Here’s to this new year, and to the slow, faithful work of becoming.
As the poet Mary Oliver reminds us, “Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.”
May we do just that — together.
A Reflection
What are you tending in your own life right now? What seeds are you planting — even quietly, even imperfectly? What is giving you hope, however small it may feel?
