What a Time to be Alive
This is the first issue of No Map From Here. I wrote this piece last January, watching the season turn outside my window in the Catskills. It was published in the creative journal The Catskiller, and it feels like the right place to begin — no answers, just a gentle wonder about what happens when we stop fighting the season we're actually in.
Outside my window, a tiny dark eyed junco bobs and weaves amongst the damp leaves, methodically choosing its path along the branches before dipping into the feeder. Having endured another winter, the junco will soon migrate further north, making space at my feeder for the birds of summer. The promise of spring, tiny tulips peeking their heads from the earth like groundhogs, and bright yellow blossoms splashed across the decayed browns like a Pollock painting, is a welcome sign for those tired of the gray, frozen winter. But for me, it serves as a wistful reminder that pieces of myself will also fall away, making space for something new.
Just like the junco, I searched for land further north to nest, moving my family from the warmth of Florida to the Catskill Mountains, unaware how desperately I needed to witness the flow of seasons to measure my growth. We arrived in January, trading sand pails for snow shovels, struggling to plant roots in frozen ground. While others huddled inside, I desperately sought signs of life, fighting the rhythm of nature and the town’s quiet routine.
Those first few months, I introduced myself to the land, inhaling the fresh melting snow, and tracing my fingers along the icy leaves. The mountains reminded me how far I had to climb, returning me to a gentle humility. In their presence, I slowed down and connected to the earth. It was in the solitude of that first winter, I began to cultivate a deep appreciation for the quiet transformation, and gratitude for the promise of growth pulsating beneath the surface, unnoticed but always moving.
Now, I welcome the colder months, answering their call to retreat inward, the valley holding me, as if in a cradle, while I tenderly explore my shadows. It’s here, warmed by the fire, that my resistance thaws, allowing me to look tenderly at the times I tried to control out of fear, when ego rose to shield my heart from criticism, and patience cracked, giving anger room to flare.
But what purpose does self-reflection serve? Cancer is not cured, world peace continues to deteriorate, and hunger remains. Yet this wading into doubt and guilt reminds me: the work on oneself is service to all. In the shadows, I find the parts of myself that once fed like a starved wolf, salivating at scraps of fear, anger, and sadness, because these scraps were the only nourishment I knew, keeping me tethered to pain, offering nothing to anyone.
By unearthing those buried wounds, I found a quiet strength that could carry me through harsher seasons. Just as the junco finds food under the frozen earth, I dug beneath my hardened habits to witness the emergence of new emotions based in love. So I return to my inner work, not to fix the world, but to meet it honestly. To love without fear. To tremble, but remain planted.
I warm my hands on my coffee mug, thoughtfully watching the junco prepare to take flight, sensing that I am also preparing for a shift. Three winters have provided much introspection, and while the junco found enough to sustain despite the frost, I wonder if the work I have done in the quiet dark of winter is strong enough to grow in the light.
The branches on the trees outside my window are also cautiously testing their strength, stretching bare arms to hold the weight of new buds. The tree, having lived well beyond my years, stands with a steady optimism, and I imagine myself rooting into the earth, seeking its confidence. While the valley awaits bursts of color, I wonder will those I love embrace the changes unfolding in me—has this been worth the wait? Does the flower concern itself with the color of its petals, or does it simply stretch toward the sun, grateful to have blossomed, remembering it was winter’s unseen work, which made it possible to bloom at all.
While hesitant to emerge, I am hopeful for the new beginnings that come with spring, for what a time to be alive! With new growth, I will test what I have learned, ready to take flight. For even in the light, there will be moments of loneliness and fear, and I will be called to find that inner sustenance which fed me in the scarcity of the cold. It is through this cycle of light and dark, I discovered the joy in being able to experience it all and learned to endure, emerging into life filled with gratitude for the love I uncovered within myself.
In those fleeting moments of uncertainty, when my courage falters, I return to my window and witness nature's steady hum. The valley’s mountains that cradle me have stood firm against the fury of thunder, the trees remain rooted despite the howling winds, and birds find life beneath the frozen earth. For it is in the strength of nature that I discover my own.
Oh what a time to be alive.
-Marni Pasch
No Map from Here