Women gathered, rested and connected as I guided a sequence based on the nest painting I made and this beautiful poem by Mary Oliver. It was such a potent gathering and felt like we were laying down the foundations for a year of tuning into the seasons as a guiding force and remembering what practices will nourish us. The Rituals for Rest will be happening every 6 weeks or so on Sunday mornings. Details on the events page.


In winter

all the singing is in

the tops of the trees where the wind-bird

with its white eyes shoves and pushes

among the branches. Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep, but he’s restless—

he has an idea,

and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings as long as he stays awake.

But his big, round music, after all, is too breathy to last.

So, it’s over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest, he’s done all he can.

I don’t know the name of this bird, I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing while the clouds—

which he has summoned from the north—

which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall into the world below

like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—

that has turned itself into snow.