The Smell of New Beginnings

Seasonal memory, green after rain, and an offering to the earth

I grew up with winter as snow.

In January, the earth was frozen hard. The land was covered—quiet, sealed, held. Winter meant white and stillness, the grip of frost telling everything to wait.

And then there was that moment—when the snow started to melt, usually in February. The earth would begin to soften. The frost would loosen its hold. And something else would arrive before any big change could be seen: the smell. That first breath of wet ground, fresh and open, as if the earth itself was exhaling after holding its breath for weeks.

And then the Schneeglöckchen—snowdrops—would push through. Green leaves, a small white flower, sometimes still surrounded by snow. That was the true rhythm of the season where I grew up: not spring as explosion, but spring as permission. A small “yes” rising through the cold cover.

Today, walking up Mount Davidson, I felt that memory return—only here, the season looks different.

In San Francisco, January is the time when green appears. The grass grows. The hills begin to turn lush. It’s almost like the covering of snow back home—only inverted: instead of everything turning white, everything turns green. The mountains become layered with fog, and the land becomes soft with rain. Birds sing in eucalyptus trees. Wind moves through leaves. And the earth—open and available—releases that same scent I knew as a child: mushrooms, wet soil, freshness. The smell of new beginnings.

It made me realize how much the seasons live in us—not as dates, but as sensations. Light changes and our mood changes. Night length changes and our inner world changes. The earth smells different and suddenly we remember things we didn’t know we were holding: childhood winters, holidays, old tenderness, old grief, old sweetness.

These are not random emotions. This is seasonal memory.

And somewhere between the big markers—the darkest day and the balancing day—there is a turning point that doesn’t announce itself. It begins quietly. A midsection. A threshold. The moment you can feel light inside the darkness, even while it’s still winter. The moment the earth starts to soften before anything is visibly blooming.

This is why I love the in-between times. They teach patience. They teach trust. They teach that beginnings don’t always look like fireworks. Sometimes a beginning is simply: the ground loosening its grip.

On the way down, I saw a man rushing with a plastic container. It looked so unusual that I asked what he was collecting. He stopped, turned back, and said, “I’m a mushroom forager, but I found this salamander. I’m taking it back to where it lives. This kind of salamander belongs here.”

Something in me softened. Not because it was dramatic—because it was simple. A small act of returning. A small restoration. I thanked him, and something in my body settled—one small return, one small restoring—bringing a little order back into a disorderly world.

And maybe that’s enough for now: to notice the smell of new beginnings, to trust what’s forming beneath the surface, and to remember that the earth keeps turning—steady and patient—whether we rush or not. A small return. A softening. A rhythm we can come back to.

This is why I keep returning to practice—not to explain the season, but to meet it with the body, and to offer something back.

In this in-between time between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox, I’m gathering a small group for a nature-led somatic installation walk at Mount Davidson. We’ll walk in quiet, listen with the senses, and create a simple, shared visual arrangement on the land—an offering shaped by our physical and emotional presence, given from our bodies back to the body of the earth.

If you feel a yes to practicing this together, you can read more and register here:

Join the Walk January 31 2026: Must Register

A way to mark the threshold.
A way to give something back.