Rethink Rewild Reconnect

Grounding in Time and Place: Day 52 of the calendar year / week 9 of winter solstice / Fredericton and Mactaquac

Seasonal attributes: lengthening light, cold air, subtle shifts

Celtic Wheel of the Year: Imbolc, returning light, hidden stirrings

Can listening be a way of seeing?

In February, my attention widened — through the night sky, distant galaxies, and the subtle rhythms of sound and poetry — reminding me that wonder can be felt as much as it is seen.

February is the shortest of months, and it carries a compressed, in-between quality. The days still feel long and the air remains cold, yet there is comfort in knowing the light is returning. This past week was unseasonably mild — a hint of what’s to come. The shifts in daylight and warmth are gradual and subtle, almost imperceptible until suddenly they aren’t.

I was sick for much of this short month, which made February less a time of doing and more a time of resting. I had to set aside the to-do list and listen to my body more closely than usual, moving at a quieter, slower pace.

This winter has felt tougher on both my body and my spirit than any before. The news and social media can unmoor me in minutes if I’m not careful, and I found myself repeatedly returning to the question of what I can and cannot control. Still, darkness can also hold wonder.

One evening, I attended a stargazing event at Mactaquac Provincial Park. After days of barely leaving the house, it reminded me how essential it is for me to connect with vastness. I left at dusk and noticed the lingering glow of sunset over a bog — the sky mostly dark, with a thin band of yellow and orange at the horizon. The moon was a sliver, its full shape faintly outlined like a shadow. A few stars had begun to emerge.

By the time I arrived, the sky was alive. Through a high-powered telescope, I saw Jupiter for the first time — or perhaps not the first time at all. Without magnification it had appeared as the brightest “star” in the sky, and I wondered how often I’d passed it by without knowing. Through the lens, its bands were visible, along with four moons aligned neatly to one side. At the next telescope, I looked into the Pinwheel Galaxy. The guide explained that the light reaching my eyes had left that galaxy 21 million years ago — a delayed image arriving only now.

What does it mean to observe something in the present that effectively belongs to the past? I felt humbled, disoriented, and filled with wonder. The evening continued with a campfire, hot chocolate, and stories — tracing constellations and listening to Greek mythology. I noticed my perception both sharpen and widen, and how much I’d been forgetting to look out — and up.

Another form of attention I practiced this month came through a poetry workshop on the science of sound. The gathering was small and passed quickly — poets and writers at various stages sharing experiences and examples. We talked about rhythm and sound in bird calls, whale song, and in the most intimate place of all: the womb. That stayed with me. I remembered reading Oh, the Places You’ll Go! to my sons in utero, and once again realized how easily I overlook the beauty of everyday sound in the rush of life.

Sound reveals presence and intimacy in the way starlight reveals distance and vastness. February invited embodiment — listening to my body and honoring it through rest and recovery. It was a month shaped by slowness and quiet, but also by a gentle seeking of wonder. Winter can feel long, and I noticed how much I need moments that widen my perspective — beyond the walls of my home, with others, in spaces that are intimate, quiet, and spacious enough to hold awe.