Seasonal Attunement

The morning came, all wrapped up in the overnight magic of fresh, crystal-like snow. It didn’t rush in. There was no loud announcement. Just a bright white quiet that softened the edges of greens and browns we already knew this winter.

Morning light felt different because of it. Sounds were quieter, with a faint crunch under each step. Even the air felt lighter, gentler than usual.

This week, between Christmas and the new year, has a way of making time feel more relaxed. Or at least of easing some of our expectations, along with the explanations that often follow.

Whatever remains feels simpler. More real.

The seasonal lights are still on outside. Not to celebrate, but as a presence in transition. A reminder, perhaps, that the year isn’t quite finished with us yet. Fresh snow and the nearness of a new year now sitting side by side.

This morning wasn’t an invitation to start over. It simply asked to be noticed. To move with purpose. To remember that care sometimes comes as quiet acceptance of what is already here. To linger a little longer, just so noticing can feel natural, exactly as it’s meant to.

I wonder what snow teaches us without instruction. It changes how I walk. My listening shifts, aligning more closely with what I’m seeing. No shouting. Only whispers. Small changes across all my senses.

There’s a phrase that fits this kind of listening: seasonal attunement.

Not awareness. Something closer to alignment.

Seasonal attunement isn’t just about the spirit of a season, or even about what comes next. I think it’s more about responding to what is already here, meeting each element as it arrives.

Early this morning, standing outside in the quiet of a new day, everything felt held. It was cold, but there was no voice urging me back indoors.

Only space doing what it does best, making room.

The snow wasn’t finished. Tiny, diamond-like fragments rolled across what had already settled, the wind briefly made visible.

So I stayed a little longer, letting the quiet surround me. Imagine, for a moment, that quiet was your job. What would your day sound like?

And when everything grows still, can you hear what remains?

Talk soon...

G