New Year's Eve: Celebrating the Spiral

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.
—Seneca the Younger, 4 BC-65 AD, Roman Stoic Philosopher

Looking upward through silhouette branches at new winter sky, I’m contemplating how time moves in December. Moment by moment, as Earth bows in celestial declination to the Sun, daylight diminishes, shadows lengthen, and time seems at once abbreviated and expanded. Then, at the still point of solstice, time suspends in crystalline silence, and there is mystical synchrony of solitude and community. The rush of Christmas preparation and ephemeral festivity declare time as fast and fleeting—until a post-holiday evening lingers drowsily in the hush of a softly illuminated tree. And now, New Year's Eve—the hours of one year waning, fading to echo like erstwhile tin horns and harlequin noisemakers, like the kitchen pot-and-pan-ladle-and-spoon bands of childhood—a year, as we mark it, vanishing at midnight.

 

Ornamental cabbage, a winter rosette.

This has been a blustery December, storm after storm knocking out power, toppling holiday decor, scattering organic debris, and rearranging all manner of best laid plans. The wind, it appears, is bound and determined to propel us forward, sweeping the calendar pages away. Gust by gust, the cadence becomes syncopated, the arc unsettled—the passage of time incomprehensible. Where did the day go!

A wayside Christmas ornament.

And yet, as we take the final footsteps of the year, there is something in the air. A sense of coherence, perhaps, a breath of peace, a brush of awareness. A crisp scarlet ribbon coiling amidst storefront evergreens and antique baubles, ice-encased branches twining with silver gray sky, a pearl-glass ornament turning on a whim, catching multihued reflections of thicket and open field. There is something borne on the breeze: something coiling, twining, turning—a present moment holding both ending and beginning, memory and promise—something freed from constraints of chiming clocks, suspended crystal balls, and calendar pages. Something like a spiral.

A summer moonflower poised to open.

I think about how time moved in the hours, the days, the months—the seasons after we lost Ben. Suddenly and irrevocably, time was broken and rendered linear. The past was lost forever, the present jagged and rough, the future a desolate, windswept plane leading to empty horizon. In continuing sister-conversation with D, I'd share how I missed the gentleness, the smooth edges, the sphere of love and comfort—the fullness of life before a most profound loss. I miss the circle, I said. Think of a spiral, she mused. Think of a circle moving through time. Maybe all of it is never really lost. Maybe all of it is right over there....

A rock-cap fern in winter woods.

Right over there. I reflect upon how Brad and I have changed the way we measure time, how we're still learning to walk through the world without Ben. We try to follow the rhythm of the seasons—taking comfort in the familiar, seeking discernment in pattern, finding joy and wonder in variation—embracing the circle that’s moving through time. We collect spirals along the way: the fiddlehead fern of springtime, spooled and tender, unfurling on the forest floor; the moonflower vine of summertime, twining on a trellis, blooms poised to open at twilight; the tinctured leaf of autumn, pirouetting in balletic descent, coming to rest beside an exquisite mountain pinecone; the rock-cap fern curled against winter morning; a swirl of ice lining the snowbound trail. All of this, every day, walking a landscape without Ben—and somehow with him. We are journeying the beautiful, bittersweet spiral. —B.

Trailside ice swirls.

The Spiral

last

breath

from joy

to sorrow

bittersweet spiral

we are the humble travelers

concerned, at times, with calendars, clocks, and confetti 

hastening outward, then sheltering inward, moving

through shadow to luminescence 

beautiful spiral

from struggle

to peace

first 

breath

—B.

A springtime fiddlehead fern.

Suppose you have a limited circular space and are trying to fill it with as many smaller circular objects as you can. The best way to do this is to start at the middle and create a spiral outward, wrapping the objects around in a coil with the fewest gaps possible. Spirals are inherently structurally strong, energy-efficient shapes that allow for internal growth along a long path.

A dandelion gone to seed.

In nature, survival depends on smart use of precious resources. This is particularly true in the cold and gloomy days of winter. The winter solstice marks the longest night of the year in the Northern Hemisphere, an ideal time to reflect on our own ability to withstand life’s darkest times. Not surprisingly, humans have associated the winter solstice with the shape of the spiral for thousands upon thousands of years, connecting the shape with the turning of the seasons, the path of the sun across the earth’s sky, and our own resilience moving into and out of the light.  Resilience within the spiral is not about avoiding pain or “muddling through” hard times—it’s about tapping the courage and strength to face darkness head-on, seeking a path forward, and finding meaning in our struggles.

A late autumn pinecone.

Spirals can be found everywhere in nature from the whorls of a pinecone to the furls of a flower, the curls of sleeping animals, the whirls of icy water, and the curves of the wind blowing snow. The power of the spiral is embedded in the helix of our DNA and in the enormity of the galaxy we call home. Even our perception of time—which sometimes feels not-quite linear—might find a better metaphor in the spiral as we move forward, but always circle back to people, places, and experiences that we are meant to revisit.

Iced branches and an opening to morning sky.

Walking a spiral-shaped labyrinth is an age-old ritual for many cultures and faiths around the globe. The solstice is a beautiful time to be inspired by this practice. Unlike a maze, a spiral labyrinth is unicursal, with a single clear line for walking to the center of the pattern, then back out along the same route. There are few directions on how to walk a labyrinth. You can walk alone or with others. You may want to choose an intention for your walk—to clear your mind, seek an answer to a question, ease your worries, listen to your inner voice, or focus on a goal. You might also walk with no set intention and see what develops for you. 

Curled cinnamon fern fronds.

Begin walking at the outside of the path and work your way to the middle. It's customary to walk slowly, mindfully, listening to your breathing and noticing your state of mind. You can choose to chant or pray as you walk or simply walk in silence. When you reach the center of the labyrinth, you might pause and consider what it represents to you. Mindfully work your way back out along the same path. If you want to try walking a labyrinth, you can design your own in almost any space, indoors or out. You can also find an existing labyrinth near you using a site like https://labyrinthlocator.org/ —D.

From The Glass Bead Game

Thus his path had been a circle, or an ellipse or spiral or whatever, but certainly not straight; straight lines evidently belonged only to geometry, not to nature and life.

—Herman Hesse, 1877-1962, Poet and Novelist

The end is where we start from.
—T.S. Eliot, 1888-1965, Poet and Essayist

Monarch Butterfly: A Beautiful Journey

Monarch browsing goldenrod in a high meadow, September 2025.

It was a season of monarchs in our garden. We first discovered the caterpillars one sultry evening in late July on a meander across twilight lawn, in the moody shelter of silhouette trees. The work of our day was done—but here were monarch caterpillars—distinctive black-and-white-and-chartreuse stripes—plump and brimming with appetite, crawling and curling across leaf and stem, munching milkweed in the dusky perennial bed. With closer observation, we located scatterings of pearlescent pinpoint eggs, and it became apparent that someone had been busy with butterfly business while we were occupied with more mundane garden tasks. In weeks to come, the chrysalises remained elusive—camouflaged and quiescent—hidden from our view. We were not privy to the process of transformation, but when we encountered fresh, unfettered wings and flutter amidst late summer blooms, we told ourselves it was one of our monarchs embarking on a beautiful journey.

Monarch caterpillars in the twilight garden, August 2025.

Across the languid, long-stretching calendar of August, monarchs filled the garden. Taking shelter from from the heat of given days, I sat beneath a patio umbrella, pen in hand and notebook on lap, nominally intending to make a list of errands and notes of things-to-do—but instead passed afternoons in the company of joyful monarchs as they sampled marmalade-hued lantana blooms, brushed by strawberry blond marigolds, perched on purple coneflowers, and browsed pink phlox swaying enticingly with gentle breeze. Every so often, a monarch would take brief leave of nectar gathering and circle my spot on the patio, pirouetting through umbrella shade as if to say, Come share the sunshine. You're on a journey but not moving. Join us. Join us!

Monarch perched on purple coneflower in the garden, August 2025.

August yielded to September, and suddenly the monarchs vanished from our garden. Was it change in the contour of light? A diminishment of nectar? A whisper-rumor of frost? It seemed that we turned to take a breath of crisp morning air—and they were gone. At the same time, we began encountering monarchs more frequently on favorite hiking trails—in windswept meadows above the Susquehanna River, amidst maritime scrub behind the dunes at Cape May Point, on late-blooming fringes of Lancaster County farm fields—where they paused to feed on goldenrod, ironweed, Joe Pye weed, and late boneset before continuing southward, always southward. These monarchs appeared seasoned and purposeful, with darker, more aerodynamic wings than our garden monarchs—well-suited for long distance flight. By late September, we were reading reports that the migratory generation was passing through Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas. As our garden accepted the wistful mantle of autumn, we traced the monarchs' journey in our imaginations.

Migrating monarch on groundsel, Cape May, New Jersey, September 2023.

Now in late October, autumn light falls across the garden. Vivid orange, black-veined wings are but memory, replaced by mellowed leaves clinging to shadowed branches. With a rush of northwesterly wind, one by one or all at once, the leaves release and spiral to ground, drift across suddenly melancholy beds, and mingle with drying and withering plants before settling for the long, silver-tinged rest. And thousands of miles away, monarchs are arriving at their wintering grounds in the cloud forests of central Mexico, roosting in oyamel firs—sacred evergreen trees of the Sierra Madre. This is a bittersweet season and so, with a mixture of gratitude and aspiration, we plant more milkweed and add varieties of nectar-rich natives to the perennial beds for next year. When the garden has had enough winter, it will bloom again—and monarchs will return, bearing wisdom of generations on wander-dusted wings. As one journey ends, another begins. Their story is heartbreakingly beautiful in design and rendering. —B. 

Monarch on wild hydrangea along the trail, June 2023.

Monarch Butterflies

They are not promised 

refuge from squall and tempest, 

nor are they offered 

guarantee of safe passage 

across troubled miles—

or respite from vagaries 

of time and passing season. 

Yet they are given 

an understanding 

of light and deepened shadow,

and something within,

like inherent faith, 

and something more than knowing,

gliding with the wind—

And something without,

browsing joyful goldenrod 

in lofty meadow.

To travel as a monarch—

trusting in angle of light 

for navigation, 

using high clouds as compass—

holding that there is purpose

and something more than going. 

How fragile the wings

and how courageous the wings. 

How beautiful the journey—

how storied the sky. 

—B.

Common milkweed.

Migrating monarch, Cape May, New Jersey, 2023.

The monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus) is an icon of the butterfly world. It is one of the most stunning and recognizable butterflies, with bright orange wings featuring black veins and white dots. The monarch has a special relationship with milkweed, the only plant on which it will lay eggs and feed its young. In the northeastern United States and southeast Canada, the monarch usually spends its spring and summer near milkweed patches. It is one of the few butterflies that does not hibernate through winter as a caterpillar. To survive the cold-weather days, it must migrate south. Consequently, the lifespan of a single monarch is dependent on the time of its emergence. If it emerges during the spring or early summer breeding season, it will typically live only a few weeks. 

Monarch visiting patio garden blooms, September 2023.

But if it emerges in late summer—as part of the final generation of the breeding season—it has the incredible ability to slow its development so that it will live up to nine months. In fall, these select monarchs will instinctively gather and migrate thousands of miles as far south as central Mexico, making roosting stops along the way. The butterflies make their journey along with the darker days of fall, clustering together for warmth, navigating their way south to winter in the warm sun. Come spring, these same monarchs will be on a tight schedule, mating, making the long journey back north, finding a milkweed patch, and letting the next generation emerge and carry on. —D.

Monarch on Goldenrod amidst ruins at Camp Michaux, August 2022.

Feeling inspired by the unique abilities of the monarch butterfly? Try “Butterfly Position” (Baddha Konasana), a seated yoga pose that opens hips, improves flexibility, and reduces tension. Suitable for most bodies and all levels of experience, it is a good pose for reminding you of your distinctiveness—you will not look the same in this pose as anyone else, and no one else will look quite like you. If you do the posture daily, you will notice that your pose changes daily too. Observe what is right for your body in each moment as you practice the pose. 

Monarch on lantana in the garden, September 2023.

Come to a seat on the floor with both legs stretched out in front of you, hands on the floor. Breathe deeply several times. On an exhale, bend your knees, and gently bring the soles of your feet together on the floor in front of you. If this is uncomfortable, you may want to try elevating your hips by sitting on a cushion or folded blanket. Depending on how it feels, slide your feet closer or further from your body. If your knees resist dropping down to the floor, there is no need to force them—just notice where they fall and keep breathing deeply. Inhale and sit up tall. With practice, you might stay in this pose for up to 5 minutes.  When you are ready, use an exhale to lean back slightly, stretch your legs out in front of you again, and shake them a little to release any tension. —D.

    from The Chrysalis, second stanza

    A power of Butterfly must be 

    The Aptitude to fly, 

    Meadows of Majesty concedes 

    And easy Sweeps of Sky.... 

    —Emily Dickinson,

   1830-1886, American poet  

Cherry Blossoms: The Fleeting Season

I am thinking of cherry blossoms and remembering a tree in the backyard at Keeneland Race Course in Lexington, Kentucky. When Brad and Ben and I would go to the spring meet, we'd sometimes sit beneath a cherry tree by the paddock walkway. While the accommodations were simple—a small, wrought iron table and mismatched chairs—the company and the blossom canopy made it seem like preferred seating. Occasionally, lifted by the lightest notion of air, a stray flower released from the tree, slipping past shoulders and falling through hands to rest on the tender green grass at our feet. I know that we appreciated afternoons at Keeneland, that we didn’t take the time for granted—but we did not grasp how truly fleeting those moments were. How could we know—how could we ever know?

These days, when I happen upon cherry blossoms or ephemeral flowers of springtime—lining a winding trail, spilling from the hillside, filling a stream-side glen—there is bittersweet feeling, an attunement with transient beauty and passing joy. I know that the stirring breeze, a gentle fall of raindrops, or the ever-advancing season will send petals to ground, that beauty and joy are twined with loss and sorrow. And yet, beneath branches draped in cherry blossoms, there is a sense that nothing we love is truly lost or inevitably wasted. Beauty fades, joy subsides—but spring will come again, always, and memory speaks with eloquence beyond power of language, across time. —B.

Raindrops on the last of the cherry blossoms in Hamarikyu Gardens, Tokyo, Japan—April 23, 2025.
—D.

I am thinking of cherry blossoms, too, as I scroll through photographs sister D. shared from a recent trip to Korea and Japan—trees so beautiful, so joyful in their time, their place, their brief season. In all likelihood, I will never pass by those trees—and it is unlikely that D. will pause beneath them again. They will bloom and release their blossoms in another springtime, for other passersby—for strangers in the sense that we will never meet, strangers who speak different languages, who claim history and culture different from our own—but acquaintances in the poignant bonds of life and death, beauty and loss, joy and sorrow. The fleeting season of blossoms brings us closer to understanding something of ourselves and something of others, something of the world around us—how moment and memory, no more and always, mingle in the branches of a cherry tree. —B.

Looking upward through a cherry blossom canopy, Lexington, Kentucky—April 2015.
—B.

The poem that follows is modified from tanka, a traditional Japanese poetic form. 

Cherry Blossoms—

how branches laden

with delicate pink and cream

form a canopy,

mingling joy and wistfulness

in gentle acknowledgment,

knowing—

how the breath of breeze,

raindrops, or whispers of time

bring blossoms to rest

on soft earth beneath the tree,

still so beautiful in loss

—always.

—B.

Cherry blossoms in front of a pagoda in Heian Jingu Garden, Kyoto, Japan—April 17, 2025.
—D.

When thinking of cherry blossoms, the flowers of the ornamental cherry tree (Prunus subg. Cerasus) probably come first to mind. These blossoms (sakura) are the national flower of Japan, which gifted cultivated ornamental cherry trees to the United States in the early 1900s. In Japanese culture, cherry blossoms have deep and complicated symbolism. On the one hand, the pink and white blossoms sing out the arrival of spring, renewal, and beauty. At the same time, the flowers are sadly short-lived—falling easily with a breeze in a stark reminder that time is fleeting.

Cherry blossoms at Keeneland, Lexington, Kentucky—April 2015.

—B.

For the Japanese, cherry blossoms are a central example of mono no aware (pronounced roughly as “moh-noh-noh-ah-wah-ray”). Mono no aware is not a philosophy or belief, but a very specific feeling—a bittersweet awareness of the fragility and impermanence of something beautiful. Cherry blossoms typically bloom on a tree for only 7-10 days before falling, and they are one of few blossoms that fall while they are in full bloom, not withering or fading. For those that pause to admire them, their brief lifespan makes them even more precious. —D.

Cherry blossoms holding on and letting go at Hamarikyu Gardens, Tokyo, Japan—April 23, 2025.
—D.

Spring blossoming offers the perfect opportunity to practice mono no aware, appreciating the moment, and reflecting on life’s impermanence. Take inspiration from the Japanese tradition of hanami, or “flower viewing.” While hanami is commonly practiced by gathering with others under blooming cherry trees, you can take advantage of any spring blooms that are available to you. The next time you notice a new bloom on a plant or tree, give yourself a few minutes to observe. Breathe. Try to sink into the moment, setting aside your phone or camera, and just savoring the experience. Let all your senses engage in enjoyment.

Blossoms along the Enola Low Grade Trail, Conestoga, Pennsylvania—April 2025.
—B.

Recognize that this flower is here only for a short time before it is gone. Enjoy it even more because it is not going to last. Let yourself sit with the reality that this flower will soon fade and die. Understand that it will be replaced by new life.  Realize the gift you’ve been given in being able to see this beautiful blossom for one moment in time. What can you learn from this experience? —D.

Trees at Heian Jingu Shinto Shrine Garden, Kyoto, Japan—April 17, 2025.
—D.

To know mono no aware is to discern the power and essence, not just of the moon and cherry blossoms, but of every single thing existing in this world, and to be stirred by each of them, so as to rejoice at happy occasions, to be saddened by sad occurrences, and to love what should be loved.

—Matoori Norinaga, 1730-1801, Japanese scholar and poet

 from Personal Views on Poetry

Early twentieth century postcard showing cherry blossom season at Ueno Park, Tokyo, Japan.
—The Library of Congress.

Cherry blossoms in full bloom at Gyeoungbok Palace, Seoul, South Korea—April 10, 2025.
—D.

A Duo: African Violet and Winter Sunset

In the heart of winter, we pause by the window and press hands to cold, frost-tinged glass. Beyond the casement, there is a blanket of snow-covered earth, the garden stilled and silver-plated, barren trees swaying in synchrony with bluster-wind. It is a world transformed by intricacies of crystal design—beautiful, but somehow aloof, unfamiliar, uncertain. We turn to examine small cache pots and rustic baskets of African violets on the windowsill—velvet green leaves and sprays of congenial, cheerful flowers in shades of lapis lazuli, cerulean, ultramarine, periwinkle—splashes of blithe, expressive blooms thriving in wan January light.

Our grandmothers knew how to propagate violets from pinched leaf stalks, how to water with care, how to tend with benign abandon. They knew, and they shared these things with us. They also shared—by example more than word, and now by recollection—ways of moving through moments of change, difficult days, and challenging times. In the heart of winter, we remember our grandmothers, how they grew African violets on long-ago and far-away windowsills, and how nostalgic blooms and memory confer gifts of constancy, simplicity, and equanimity across the changing seasons. —B.

African Violet—

our grandmothers grew violets

and knew

the world

beyond a frosted windowpane

may falter, meet sorrow

and confusion

of sky—

and yet

through the longest winters,

how blooms upon the sill

may comfort us

with hues

of constancy, simplicity,

and joy.

—B.

And there are times in the heart of winter when we move away from the window and pass through the door, into cold, still air—into the gloaming. The moment poises between light and long shadow, between illumination of day and darkness of night. The sky is a violet cloak veined with dark, brittle boughs—branches yearning skyward in seeming supplication, sometimes holding offerings of fresh snow. How to describe a winter sunset: is it dusky azure... mauve half-light... lavender evensong? Or is it the color of solitude, a moment tinged with melancholy, brushed with sorrow—a sense that everything bright and good is fragile and fleeting, that time is traveling at the pace of refracted light—vapor scattering, then vanishing, on an always-receding horizon?

The naming of a winter sunset heightens our awareness, matches our mood. Beyond melancholy, past the cast of solitude and the tincture of sorrow, there is a deepening sense of peace and belonging saturating the January hour—an invitation to pause, to breathe, a chance to embrace, at once, impermanence and all that endures. Perhaps then, the color of a winter sunset is hushed violet—an invocation for safe passage, for quietude of spirit, through the darkest of nights. —B.

Winter Sunset—

the hush,

the space between

daylight and deep shadow,

with twining barren branches pressed

to sky—

each thing, all things ever-changing,

and yet—

a cloak

of scattered light and vapor drapes

the violet hour,

in evensong,

the vow

of quietude and safe passage

through night.

—B.

Winter Sunset in Chatham, January 2018.

African Violets on D's Windowsill.

The name African violet commonly refers to about ten species in the section Saintpaulia of the genus Streptocarpus, native to Tanzania and Kenya—and not related to true violet flowers at all. In the late 1800’s, German and British colonists transplanted the flower from Africa to Europe where it soon became a popular indoor plant. African violets are willing to produce their delicate flowers all year long, providing they are kept at relatively stable temperature and are left largely alone. They should be watered infrequently and carefully—they especially don’t like to have cold water splashed on their leaves. Many a brown-thumbed plant enthusiast can find success with an African violet--the plants thrive with little maintenance when put in a sunny windowsill, making them an excellent gift flower.

The shades of the African violet’s bloom could fill a thesaurus, from aubergine to lavender, mauve, orchid, and magenta. For those who nurture them, African violet flowers bring a hopeful message of constancy in all seasons of the year. Through the spring rain, the summer drought, the fall frost, and the howling winter wind, the little houseplants provide a sense of stability--and a reminder of beauty—with every bloom. —D.

Violet is a color of transition and imagination. Sitting between serene blue and enthusiastic red on the color wheel, it brings aspects of both energies to the table. Violet has the shortest wavelength and the highest frequency on the visible color spectrum, and many cultures associate it with supreme levels of spirituality, dignity, and royalty. In literature, the violet hour is a moment of splendor during a transition—the time between day and night when the sky might show itself in glorious shades of purple.

The Violet Hour in Gettysburg, January 2025. 

When we are facing a period of rapid change in our lives, we can remember the steadiness, stability, and majesty of the African violet. Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and imagine a violet light shining on you. Maybe you are basking in the glow of a magnificent violet hour in a natural setting. Or maybe you are sitting quietly below a violet stained-glass window as the sun’s light beams down. Feel the violet light move through you—the cool of the blue balanced with the warmth of the red. Take several deep breaths and soak in the violet energy. Think about the things in your life that ground you, keep you steady, fill you with hope when everything around you seems to be changing. Throughout the day, look for shades of violet in your surroundings. Name the shade and pause to notice how it makes you feel. —D.

from The Hour

This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affections glow and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn.

—Bernard DeVoto, 1897-1955, author, conservationist, historian

The Violet Hour at Loantaka Brook Reservation, February 2011.