Now That The Weather Has Changed

When the Wind Hushes: A Seasonal Reflection from the Meadow’s Edge

Now that the weather has turned cooler and the holidays begin to stir in the distance, the land enters a quieter rhythm. The meadow no longer hums with summer’s urgency. Instead, it listens. The wind hushes. The soil exhales. And somewhere beneath the frost, the roots remember.

This is the season of inward turning. Of gathering what’s been scattered. Of honoring what’s been lost or left behind. In the garden, the lemongrass has been harvested, its citrus scent lingering on the skin like a memory. Turned into gifts to cheer during the Dark Time of the Year. The compost pile grows richer, layered with fallen leaves and the last of the summer stems—browns and greens in quiet conversation. Even the new Kalettes, tucked into their cool-season bed, seem to know that this is a time for slow unfolding.

For those of us who teach, tend, and ritualize the land, this season offers a threshold. It invites us to pause and ask: What do I carry forward? What do I release? What stories want to be told now, when the light is low and the stars arrive early?

In ecological terms, winter is not a death but a dormancy. A recalibration. The soil is still alive, teeming with microbial life and the slow work of decomposition. Organic matter builds. Water moves more gently. And in the Edwards Aquifer region, this is a time to reflect on how our upcoming gardening choices shape the underground waters we cannot see. Cover crops, perennial roots, and composted offerings—all of these are prayers for clean water, for future springs, for the unseen aquifers that hold our collective breath.

As the holidays approach, I find myself drawn to small rituals. Lighting a candle at dusk. Stirring a pot of soup with gratitude. Wrapping soap bars made from garden herbs and gifting them with quiet reverence. These gestures remind me that celebration doesn’t have to be loud. It can be rooted. Intentional. Offered like a seed.

So here, at the edge of the season, I offer this: “When the wind hushes, the land dreams—and the stillness begins to speak.” Let this be the phrase that carries us through winter. A reminder that even in silence, there is story. Even in stillness, there is movement. And even in the cold, there is care.

May your holidays be gentle. May your soil be rich. And may your aquifer—literal or mythic—be protected and replenished.