For the last nine months I’ve been documenting seasonal changes in UVM’s natural area, Centennial Woods. There, I observed the shedding of leaves, fox prints in the snow, and Northern red cardinals chirping above. I found my love for the spiritual connection at Centennial. I wrote a piece on Taoism standing in Centennial Woods, which would later be published in UVM’s environmental publication. The ecological changes present in my natural area is nothing less than any other Northern Hardwood forest. But to me, it somehow became magic. A place for me to write, and explore the things that I craved most. Creating space for those who matter. For those who seek solace in the outdoors as much as I do.
In October (2023), I began my journey. As the leaves were slowly changing, and the forest was beginning to paint itself with vibrant reds and oranges, I sat and stared at my place. The birds still chirped, the air still held a sense of warmth, yet I knew what was coming.
In November (2023), I was challenged to trek out to Centennial. Suffering from mental health issues and being away from home didn’t stop me from going out and seeking some alone in the forest. I decided to sit down and paint, with the gentle stream sending whispers into my ear. I recall documenting how the leaves were shedding into the understory, and the sight of green was beginning to dwindle. Winter was coming, yet the forest eased into this seasonal change.
In December (2023), there was little to no snow on the ground. Mud was covering the forest floor. I walked through Centennial at a slower pace than usual. I felt like the seasonal changes were parallel to my own endeavors in some way. I was shedding a version of myself to welcome in a new season: of rebirth, enlightenment, and peace.
In January (2024), I welcomed a new year by plunging in the cold ocean in Cape Cod. After a month spent at home, I was antsy to get back to my place. There was something about the peace that I experienced when I was at Centennial that kept me going back, even if a blog wasn’t due. This time, pearlescent snow covered the forest floor, the birds were a lot quieter, and some squirrel tracks were found imprinted on the snow bed.
In February (2024), we were asked to frolic in different natural areas to document snow mysteries. My friend and I visited a natural area nearby and were delighted to see some squirrel prints. I remember feeling peaceful when the light hit the snow, making it sparkle.
In March (2024), we were struck with about six inches of snow. The leaves were beginning to bud, yet frost limited their ability to grow and flourish. You could tell the ecosystem was confused, but it wasn’t the first time this natural area had experienced something like this. Sudden seasonal changes were no stranger, especially in modern times. However, Centennial remained resilient, and weeks later had life emerge once again.
In April (2024), the air was warm again and the buds growing. Birds conversed overhead. I was able to document a Northern red cardinal and a black-capped chickadee on Merlin Bird ID. Life was at my place again, and I was feeling alive too.
Finally, to now (May 2024), here I am, sitting at the same spot I decided to explore at the beginning of my freshman year of college. So much has changed, yet a lot has stayed the same. Centennial woods became a place for me to explore a spiritual connection, intertwining my ancestral knowledge of the natural world and my current beliefs. I was always happy to see the bridge that led me to my spot. This bridge remained here throughout all 9 months, and to me, it somehow became the bridge for this transcendental connection and creative endeavour in the natural world. I am lucky to experience a place like Centennial woods. It brought out the best parts of me, and in some ways I became a part of Centennial.
