Some walks stay with us long after they end.
Sometimes they even lead us back to old wisdom — like the legendary weather sayings and the March Folklore of Hope — reminding us that spring always finds its way.
Hello, fellow lovers of all things green.
As I write this, the brook in front of the house is racing from all the snowmelt and recent rains. A soft mist hangs in the air, and most of the snow cover has melted away. A few days ago, I enjoyed the final swishing of cross-country skis in the backyard woods, chasing what may have been the last of the snow. Or maybe not quite the last. Spring doesn’t officially arrive until March 20 this year, so winter still has a little time to show its snowy face again.
Some walks stay with us long after they end.
Maybe I should keep it to myself that I wouldn’t mind another snowfall. I know many are snow-weary after the winter we’ve had.
Mud Season and a Walk in the Rain
It warmed into the 50s on Sunday, and Jolee and I wandered through the woods in snowshoes, stepping over patches of fallen leaves where the snow had already disappeared. The landscape is in that in-between stage now—mud season—a messy time, especially for those of us with canine kids.
Then the rain came. Rain rarely keeps us from walking. We walk in all kinds of weather, except for thunder and lightning. When the roads are salted, which isn’t kind to doggie feet, we stay among the trees.
Being in nature is part of my daily routine—a way to stay grounded
Walking in nature has a way of opening quiet spaces inside us — something we talked about before in Forest Bathing Helps Loneliness. As Jolee and I stepped into the woods that morning, it felt quiet except for the steady rhythm of raindrops falling through the branches onto a carpet of soggy leaves and patches of snow.
Being among the trees has a way of opening quiet spaces inside us—places where thoughts and feelings we’ve been carrying finally have room to breathe. As the journey unfolded, I found myself shedding a few tears.
You see, I’ve been navigating a painful separation journey. It’s something I’ve mentioned before, but haven’t spoken about in much detail. After many years together, my life partner has parted ways. It has been hard to grasp how a person who shared so much of life with you can suddenly become an adversary.
I don’t want to share the details of that challenge. But I do want to share how I’m learning to process it—because walking amongst the trees has a way of helping.
Tears in the Rain
There is something about rain that invites honesty from the heart. The quiet rhythm of the raindrops. The feeling of the forest canopy embracing you from above, supporting whatever your heart is carrying.
My Faithful Companion Jolee: March 2021- Two months after her adoption date.
As the rain touched my face that morning, I had the distinct feeling that God was sharing tears of understanding with me. Amazing grace. Sometimes rain feels like that—not just weather, but grace. A cleansing. A nourishing of the earth so that new life can grow.
Perhaps our tears work in the same way.
Beside me was Jolee, my faithful companion. Dogs don’t require explanations. They walk beside us, present in the moment, accepting whatever the day holds.
Though Jolee sometimes puts on the brakes in the rain, her way of saying, “I’d rather not, thank you very much.” But then she gets into the groove. That day, she walked steadily by my side, as if she knew I needed her.
She has adjusted well to our new routine of just the two of us, though she loved her Poppa very much. And, so did I.
The Wisdom of the Forest
The forest holds many reminders of how life works. Storms pass. Roots hold. New growth follows disturbance. Those truths are evident in nature, though sometimes harder to remember in our own lives.
March mornings often arrive wrapped in mist.
As I walked that rainy morning, I found myself thinking about a column I wrote during another unsettling time in the world, in the thick of the pandemic. The column was titled March Folklore of Hope. At that time, the world felt upside down. Fear was both real and amplified by the constant stream of alarming headlines.
Today, the news again carries stories of conflict and war. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by worry. Perhaps that is why March folklore has endured for generations. People have always looked to nature’s signs this time of year for reassurance that change is coming—that winter never holds the landscape forever.
March is a month of thresholds. Winter loosens its grip while spring quietly gathers momentum beneath the soil.
March Folklore of Hope
Many are familiar with the saying that “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” My mom used to say it in reverse.
“If it comes in like a lamb, it goes out like a lion.”
It makes sense, right?
Upon researching the history of the 19th-century proverb, it seems the saying isn’t necessarily reversed either way. Maybe it was simply an Emma Stone original. My dear mom was fluent in idioms. Still, it seems logical that the expression could work both ways. Think back on all the snowy Easters we’ve experienced after a mild start to March.
Spring gathers courage beneath the snow.
As I sit here today, the world outside feels wrapped in fog. The air above the frozen ground is warming. Or perhaps more positively, a mist is in the air. Which reminds me of another saying my mom loved:
“So many mists in March you see, so many frosts in May will be.”
Uh-oh.
Weather folklore is fun to consider, though we know we have no control over nature’s plans. What we can control is how we spread love and kindness to foster hope.
“In like a lion, out like a lamb” suggests a balance—not only in weather but in life as well. After something difficult often comes growth.
Love stands opposite fear.
Hope lives in the promise of change and new beginnings.
Snowdrops are among the first flowers to bloom.
Snowdrops and the Promise of Spring
Soon the snowdrops will emerge—those lovely little nodding white flowers that magically push through the last layer of winter’s frost. Their presence reminds us that life continues below the surface even when it’s unseen. They are among the first flowers each year, as we explored in Winter Flowers and Folklore.
As I continued my rainy walk that morning, I reflected on the legal challenges unfolding in my life and something my brother once showed me through his practice of Tai Chi.
Tai Chi is an ancient martial art with slow, self-defense movements inspired by observing animals in nature. My brother embraced Tai Chi for its meditative principles rooted in balance.
Redirecting the Storm
Bill’s demonstration of Pushing Hands was my favorite. (I wrote about this beautiful lesson before in Pushing Hands of Peace.)
With legs firmly grounded, he would stand hands against hands with a partner. Their upper bodies flowed back and forth like the ocean tides. Bill’s hands would slowly yield to his partner’s push, then redirect the energy rather than resisting force with force.
Life moves quietly through the mist.
Watching this always struck me as a powerful metaphor for life. Sometimes resistance only creates more force. Sometimes the wiser path is to remain grounded and redirect the energy.
That idea has helped me recently. When someone carries anger about things that didn’t go the way they hoped, that anger often spills onto others. Being on the receiving end of that can be very difficult.
The challenge is not to absorb that anger and become paralyzed by the hurt—but to redirect it and remain rooted in our own values. Like trees in a storm. (Not becoming paralyzed is a work in progress for me.)
Angel Kisses
As I continued my rainy walk, tiny spritzes of rain brushed my face. I like to think of them as angel kisses—gentle reminders that life has its own unfolding rhythm.
Every winter, when my fieldwork slows and garden installations pause, I set expectations for what I hope to accomplish during the quieter months. Sometimes something interrupts those plans. This year, it has been the time and emotional energy required to navigate legal matters and personal change.
But as the old saying goes: This too shall pass. And that comforts me. I hope it does the same for you as you go through tough times.
From a single acorn grows a forest.
The Lesson of the Acorn
Nature reminds us to trust the process. Consider the acorn. A single acorn falls to the ground and sprouts into an oak tree that grows strong and tall, producing thousands of acorns along the way. Those acorns feed wildlife. Some become future forests.
If you ever wish to plant just one thing to support nature, plant an oak tree. It nurtures hundreds of species and becomes a pillar of life in the landscape. Perhaps the challenges we experience in life are similar.
We don’t always understand their purpose in the moment. But they shape who we become—and sometimes allow us to nourish others along the way.
Even in the fog, light finds its way through.
Walking in the Mist
As I finished my rainy walk that morning, the mist thickened where the drifts of snow gathered among the trees. It felt as though I was walking inside a cloud. And yet even in the fog, I knew something important.
Spring is coming. The snowdrops will emerge. The woods and meadows will green again.
And whatever storms we face—in our gardens, in the world, or in our personal lives—they are part of the seasons we pass through. The forest reminds us that life continues to grow through every one of them.
🌿 Have you ever taken a walk in nature that stayed with you long after it ended?
I’d love to hear about it.
Garden Dilemmas? AskMaryStone@gmail.com or tune in on your favorite Podcast App.
🎧 Prefer to listen? You can hear this reflection in Episode 244 of the Garden Dilemmas podcast.
Related stories and podcasts you’ll enjoy:
Forest Bathing Helps Loneliness
🎧 Ep. 34 – Forest Bathing Helps Loneliness/ Willowwood Champion Trees
🎧 Ep. 98 – Winter Flowers and Folklore
