WHERE SPRING SLEEPS

Today, I want to introduce you to the first entry of my Diary of Knowing Nature.

It is a diary of a long journey — one where we will learn together to see, to hear, and to feel nature with the heart.

My morning began with a walk through a winter forest.

A forest without snow.

Grey.

With bare trees and exposed grasses.

At first glance, where is the beauty here?

What can be seen in this quiet, almost wordless space?

But if you stop…

If you listen…

If you breathe a little deeper…

Nature will always speak — and it will reveal itself.

And then a thought arises:

How many winters, how many springs are we given to witness?

For some — thirty.

For others — sixty.

For some — ninety.

We have no power over the number.

But we do have power over how we live each one of them.

Every winter is unique.

And each one carries its own quiet wonder.

Nature — and God — have already prepared everything for us.

All we need is an open heart.

So often in winter we stay indoors.

We fear the cold, the dampness, the grey skies.

Bare branches seem empty, meaningless.

And we choose the warmth of screens, the noise of televisions,

small comforts for the body…

While winter passes.

One after another.

Unnoticed.

We wait for a fairy tale —

soft snow,

white falling flakes,

a gentle hush from the sky.

But where I live, this miracle comes rarely.

And if it appears even a few times a season, it feels like a gift.

So what do we do during the long, snowless days?

It is simple.

Step outside.

Go to what is near.

A familiar forest, a path close to home.

Turn toward nature — not with your eyes, but with your heart.

The trees are sleeping now.

The plants are sleeping too.

Or so it seems.

Inside, life continues.

The first buds are already there —

still fragile, still closed,

yet filled with moisture, strength, and quiet anticipation.

They know — spring will come.

Beneath the ground, unseen work continues.

The grass that looks dry and tired

carefully guards the green that will return.

Birdsong is rare.

The sun is gentle, restrained.

But even in this stillness, there is beauty.

Nature is resting.

And we rest with it.

We slow down.

We learn to listen.

We learn to simply be.

Even now, in this grey forest,

a connection is being woven —

to the Beginning,

to the Creator,

to God.

Everything has its season.

And nearby, squirrels dart through the trees.

They find the nuts hidden months ago

and carry them back to their small homes.

Life goes on.

Quietly.

Faithfully.

Truly.

All we need to do

is stop,

look,

and listen with the heart.