There is a quiet kind of healing that slips into the soul when you step outside into the hush of a backyard sanctuary. At Winterpast, our home nestled gently into the rhythms of nature, the backyard is more than a space. It’s a refuge. A place where time doesn’t rush and peace lingers like the scent of flowers after rain.
Recently, we’ve had visitors who stopped by for a minute, and then just sat and relaxed. Everyone agrees that they don’t want to leave. With Mother Robin feeding her young with worms from the garden to hummingbirds that have finally arrived, our garden is a wildlife sanctuary. Unfortunately, still includes one squirrel, but this blog is about relaxation, so I’ll save that for another time.
The mornings begin with birdsong, clear and unpretentious. Doves flit among the branches, finches chatter near the feeders, and every now and then a hawk will ruin the party, causing everyone to run for cover. Their melodies are not just sounds but reminders that the world still hums with beauty even in the smallest corners.
Even the crows are in on the action. As my favorite bird and totem animal, the crows are quite humorous. HHH now agrees that where I go, so go the crows. One has taken to sitting on our fountain to get a drink. This guy is magnificent as he perches on the top tier.
The fountain gurgles steadily, a liquid heartbeat for the garden. Its water rises and falls in a soothing cadence, each drop catching sunlight like a fleeting gem. Sitting nearby, I often lose track of time, lulled by its constancy. It speaks in a language older than words, of movement and stillness, of giving and returning.
Last week, I finally found a use for my grandmother’s cast-iron caldron. That sounds really bad, but Grammie had her very own. On the ranch, she made delicious watermelon jelly over an open flame. While we farmed there for 17 years, the caldron became mine. For years, it’s been packed here and there. I finally ordered a solar fountain for it, and next week hope to buy some water lilies.
Wind chimes sway in the breeze, their tones delicate and sometimes imperceptible until they drift to your ear. There’s a magic in the unpredictability as they whisper wisdom from the wind itself. They never sing the same tune twice, yet their music always carries the same message: “Be here. Right now”.
The breeze at Winterpast is a kind and constant companion. It moves through the trees, rustling leaves like turning pages, as nature reads its own poetry. It brushes across the skin not to chill, but to wake. A beautiful invitation to breathe deeper, pause longer, and notice more.
And then, there’s the flowers. They don’t shout their beauty, they simply exist in vivid, fragrant confidence. Daisies are finally opening like smiles, lavender leans into the sun, and roses, (even with their thorns), bloom without apology. Watching them reminds me that growth is quiet, but never still. It continues even when no one is looking.
Everyone who visits Winterpast feels it. There’s a softness here that settles over the spirit. The gardens speak to something universal that every soul is longing for in this crazy, noisy, busy world: stillness.
Ands so, no one wants to leave. People linger longer than they planned to, holding cups of coffee that have gone cold, not because they’ve forgotten them, but because they’ve remembered themselves. Time slows. The noise recedes. And in the quiet, they find what they didn’t know they were looking for.
Winterpast is aptly named speaking of seasons that have gone, sorrows that have softened, and memories that have settled like fallen leaves. In its backyard, one finds not just peace, but the kind of stillness that restores. The kind of silence that speaks volumes.
May we all find our Winterpast where the soul can sit quietly, listening to fountains and finches, feeling the breeze, and learning once again how to be at peace.
