Friends of the Forest

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Friends of the Forest

Friends of the Forest is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit devoted to nature-inspired wellness for women.
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Guided by the rhythms of the Earth, I weave story, folklore, and healing into spaces of rest, renewal, and deep belonging. Friends of the Forest is a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization that helps reconnect women with the Sacred and more-than-human world. We provide engaging, sensory immersion experiences in nature to help women cultivate a healing reconnection with our natural world by incorporating creativity, connection with nature, mindfulness, personal development, and equine wisdom. Rewild your sense of wonder for the more-than-human world, and rediscover how Mother Nature provides sacred guidance through life's circular and seasonal journey. We welcome you to connect with nature, live with the seasons, tune into your body’s needs, and explore a little earth magick with us.

03/27/2026

In the Hidden World between the Trees, it is said that some trees remember the sun more clearly than others.

Birch trees are among them.

If you walk through a forest at dusk, when the light has begun to thin and the shadows gather beneath the branches, you may notice how the birches linger in brightness long after the other trees have faded into gray. Their pale bark catches what little light remains, standing quietly luminous among the darker trunks of the forest.

The old stories say long ago, when the world was still settling into the rhythm of seasons, the sun worried that the long winters would cause its warmth to be forgotten. Months of darkness passed over the land, and the forests stood quiet beneath snow and cloud.

So the sun asked the trees if any of them would hold a little of its light through the dark season.

The great oaks considered the request carefully but declined. They were already carrying centuries of wind and weather in their branches. The pines, tall and serious, said their work was to listen to the long breath of the forest.

But the birches—who gathered in bright, whispering groves—had a different nature. They were the quick ones. They talked easily among themselves, their leaves trembling at the smallest breeze. And when the sun made its request, the birches answered as a grove.

“We will keep it,” they said.

They offered their pale bark as a place where a little sunlight could rest.

From that day forward, birch trees began carrying the memory of the sun in their skin. Even in dim forests or on gray winter days, their trunks hold a quiet brightness—as if the light of many seasons is still waiting there.

That is why birches rarely stand alone.

They prefer company, growing in lively groves where their pale trunks catch the light together, reflecting it back and forth among themselves like old friends sharing a secret.

The Hidden World says they still remember the promise they made.

Each day they gather the sunlight that touches them.

And when evening comes and the forest begins to darken, the birches release a little of that brightness back into the woods—just enough to keep the memory of the sun alive until morning returns.

03/27/2026

Volume Two of The Hidden Manuscripts is published next week ✨

If you haven’t yet purchased Volume One, now is the time to step in. It lays the foundation for everything that is about to unfold.

Volume One: https://www.blurb.com/b/12796408-the-hidden-manuscripts-volume-one

Volume Two is something truly special—it includes two stories that have never been shared on social media, along with reflection prompts for deeper self-discovery, and a collected archive of all of March writings.

This work continues to evolve, to deepen, to open.

I can’t wait to share it with you.

03/26/2026

Deep in the forest, you will eventually come across a fallen tree.

At first it can feel like a loss.

A tree that once stretched tall toward the sky now lies quiet on the forest floor. Its bark splits. Its wood softens. Moss begins to gather along its spine, and small mushrooms push through its surface like tiny lanterns.

But if you look more closely, you will see that the forest does not treat this fallen tree as something finished.

It becomes something else entirely.

Over time the log holds moisture like a sponge. Moss blankets it. Insects move in and begin their quiet work of returning wood to soil. Ferns take root along its length.

And often, if you visit the same place years later, you will see young trees growing directly from that old trunk — their roots reaching down through the softened wood.

Foresters sometimes call these nurse logs.

The fallen tree becomes a cradle for new life.

The forest understands something we often struggle with: what appears to be an ending may actually be a transformation.

Nothing in the forest is wasted.

The old tree feeds the soil. The soil feeds the seedlings. The seedlings rise toward the same light their ancestor once reached.

Life continues, not in spite of the fallen log, but because of it.

In our own lives we often resist the moments when something collapses — a plan, a role, a chapter we thought would last longer.

Yet the forest reminds us that decay is not failure.
It is part of the cycle that allows something new to root.

Sometimes the most important thing we leave behind is the ground we create for what comes next.

So if you ever find yourself sitting beside a fallen log in the woods, notice what grows there.

You may be looking at the quiet beginning of the next forest.

03/25/2026

In the Hidden World between the Trees, spring does not begin with flowers. It begins with a gathering.

Long before the first green shoots appear beside the path, before birds return to the branches and before the soil warms enough for human hands to notice, the seeds beneath the earth begin to stir.

All winter they have rested in the dark soil, tucked between roots and stones, wrapped in the deep quiet of the cold months. Above them the forest has slept. Snow has fallen. Winds have moved through bare branches.

But beneath the ground, the seeds have been listening.

They feel the slow warmth moving through the soil. They sense the lengthening of the days in ways no one above the ground could easily explain. Through the fine threads of root and fungus that weave the forest together, messages begin to travel again.

And so the seeds gather. Not in a place that could be found by digging, but in the quiet network beneath the earth where the living things of the forest share their oldest conversations.

There they hold their council.

The dandelion seeds are the first to speak. They are bold and impatient, always eager to rise. “The light is returning,” they say. “We should go now. The wind will carry us far.”

The oak acorns are slower to answer. They remember older seasons and colder springs. “The light is returning,” they agree, “but the earth is still deciding. We must wait a little longer.”

The wildflower seeds murmur softly among themselves, curious and hopeful. The maple keys listen from their quiet pockets in the soil, already dreaming of spinning down from tall branches.

Each seed carries its own memory of the seasons.
Each seed has its own way of waiting.
So they listen carefully.

To the roots of the trees above them.
To the faint stirring of worms through the soil.
To the slow warming that spreads through the ground like a distant breath.

And they wait for one more sign.

The old stories say that each spring, just after the balance of light has returned to the world, someone walks the land above them.

A quiet presence moving across fields and forests, carrying the first true weather of the new season.

The seeds know this.
So the council listens for her footsteps moving through the soil.
Only when they feel that gentle change pass through the earth do the seeds begin to loosen their shells.

Because spring, the Hidden World says, does not begin when the flowers appear.

It begins the moment the seeds agree the world above is ready—and the one who wakes them has arrived.

03/24/2026

In the Hidden World between the Trees, the turning of the year is not left to the sun alone.

There is a moment each spring when the world slips into perfect balance—when night and day meet one another as equals, neither reaching further across the earth than the other. The old stories say this moment is delicate. Too much light and the balance would tip too soon. Too much shadow and the long dark would linger.

So the balance is watched.

By the Keepers.

They are not often seen, and no two stories describe them the same way. Some say they move like pale figures between the trunks of ancient trees just before dawn. Others believe they stand at the high places where the horizon stretches wide, measuring the length of shadow against the reach of light.

Most people pass through the day without sensing them at all.

But those who walk quietly in the woods sometimes feel it—a deep stillness that settles over the land, as though the forest itself has paused to listen.

On that day the Keepers move silently through the world. Where the light grows too eager, they soften it. Where the shadows linger too long, they draw them back.

Not enough to be noticed.

Only enough that the scales of the world remain steady for a single breath of the earth.

The roots feel it first. Sap stirs in the trees. Birds grow restless in the branches as if some ancient signal has passed quietly through the air.

And then the moment ends.

The balance tips.

The light begins its slow climb toward summer.

The old stories say that is when the Keepers withdraw again, slipping into the hidden places of the world—the deep woods, the quiet hills, the spaces between roots and stone where the turning of seasons can still be heard.

They do not disappear.

They wait.

And if you walk the forest just after the equinox, when the air carries that strange feeling of having passed through something unseen, you may sense them lingering for a moment longer before they retreat.

Watching.

Until the world turns again and they are called back to hold the balance at the next equinox.

03/23/2026

Everyone knew there was a witch who walked the fields in the early days of spring.

Not the storm-bringing kind, nor the restless wind who rushed through the valleys in March. This one moved more quietly, so quietly that most people never noticed her passing at all.

They called her the Seed Witch.

She came just after the turning of the season, when the balance between night and day had finally settled and the earth had begun to soften beneath the returning light.

While people looked for blossoms and green shoots above the ground, the Seed Witch was already at work below it.

She walked slowly across the sleeping fields and forest floors, trailing her fingers lightly over the soil. Wherever her hand passed, something stirred beneath the surface—tiny roots stretching, shells loosening, the first faint push of life testing the darkness.

But she did not wake them all.
The Seed Witch was careful.

Some seeds needed another week of quiet. Some needed the warmth of several more sunrises before they were ready. She listened closely to each small life resting in the earth, deciding which ones could rise and which ones should remain hidden a little longer.

That is why spring never arrives all at once.

One morning a single green shoot appears beside the path. Days later another follows. Then another. The fields slowly fill with life, as though the land itself is waking in small, thoughtful breaths.

The old gardeners say this is the work of the Seed Witch.

Each night she returns, moving through orchards and meadows, gardens and forest edges, touching the soil and whispering softly to the seeds waiting below.

Not yet, she tells some.
Now, she tells others.

And with every careful choice, the world above the ground begins to change—green pushing through brown earth, flowers unfolding where there was only silence before.

Because while we watch the sky for signs of spring, the Seed Witch is already walking the ground,
deciding what life is ready to rise.

03/22/2026

My sweet girl.

I was sitting under a tree this afternoon, a migraine quietly building, when she walked over and placed her nose on the top of my head… and breathed.

As if she knew.
As if she could feel it moving through me.

She’s shedding right now—itchy, uncomfortable, in-between coats and seasons. And I realized… we’re not so different in this moment. Both of us a little tender in our bodies. Both of us moving through a kind of spring shedding.

She has a big month ahead—farrier, dentist, spring exams and shots, dewormer (which she absolutely hates), and chiropractic work. All the things that help her, but still… a lot for one system to hold.

It made me think about how much we ask of them sometimes.
And how much they give anyway.

So this month feels less about doing… and more about tending.
More brushing. More quiet days. More space to just be a horse.
And maybe the same for me, too.
There is something so sacred in the way they meet us without words.
The way they come close.
The way they breathe with us.
Like they’re reminding us—you don’t have to push through this alone.
Just be here.

03/22/2026

The hare was never thought to be an ordinary creature.

She belonged to the quiet margins of the fields, appearing suddenly where moments before there had been nothing but grass. One moment the meadow was empty. The next, she was there — still, upright, listening.

People noticed the way she held herself.

Her ears rose high above the grasses, long enough to gather the smallest movements in the air. When she stood like that, those ears turned slowly, as though she were listening not only to the wind or the birds, but to something deeper beneath the surface of the world.

And people began to wonder what she could hear.

Some said the hare listened to the earth itself. In the early weeks of spring, when the land still looked quiet to human eyes, the soil was already stirring with hidden work. Seeds were loosening in the dark. Roots were pressing gently outward. The ground was remembering how to grow again.

The hare heard it first.

That is why she moved so strangely through the fields. She did not run like other animals. She circled, doubled back, leapt suddenly sideways as if following paths no one else could see. Sometimes two hares would appear together, racing in wide looping arcs across the meadow before disappearing again into the grasses.

Old stories said she was following the quiet instructions of the land.

Her long ears were not an accident. They were a gift — made for listening to a world that speaks softly.

And so the hare became one of the quiet companions of early spring. Not because she brought the season with her, but because she could hear it arriving long before anyone else.

If you see her standing still in a field this time of year, ears lifted toward the wind, she may not be watching you at all.

She may be listening to the earth, waiting for it to speak.

03/21/2026

Magic in nature is not something added—it is something remembered, revealed in the quiet intelligence of wind, root, and water when we take the time to notice.

This is your invitation to notice.

03/21/2026

In old spring customs, the first egg of the season was rarely eaten.

All winter the nests had been quiet. Hens laid little in the dark months, as though they too were waiting for the sun to gather strength again. But as the days slowly lengthened and the balance of light returned to the sky, the nests began to hold something new — small pale eggs resting in straw like quiet proofs that life had not forgotten its way back.

People noticed the first one carefully.
It was not treated like an ordinary egg. It belonged to the turning of the year.

In some villages it was carried to the garden and pressed gently into the soil at the edge of the fields. In others it was placed beneath a young fruit tree or tucked into the roots of a hedge. No ceremony was needed. The gesture itself was enough.

The belief was simple and very old.
What the earth gives must sometimes be returned.

An egg holds a particular kind of mystery. From the outside it appears closed, silent, complete. Yet within it is the possibility of life waiting for the right warmth to awaken it. In the same way, early spring holds its own hidden beginnings. Nothing seems fully alive yet, but beneath the soil the world is already preparing to grow again.

Returning the first egg to the earth was a way of acknowledging that moment.
A small promise placed back into the ground.

Only later did eggs become decorations of the season, painted in bright colors and carried in baskets. But in older tellings, they belonged to the soil first — a quiet exchange between people and the living land.

If you feel drawn to mark the turning of the season today, you might try the same small gesture. Take an egg to the garden, to the roots of a tree, or to a quiet place in the soil. Press it gently into the earth and leave it there.

Not as a ritual.
Just as a simple return.

A way of acknowledging that the season of beginnings has come again, and that the life we are given is always part of something larger growing beneath our feet.

03/20/2026

In old countryside tales, every village had someone who watched the turning of the year. Not with charts or calendars, but with the kind of attention that comes from living close to the land. Often it was the wise woman of the village who carried this knowing. She noticed the small shifts others walked past — the angle of the light along the hills, the way frost left the ground in certain places first, the slow wandering path of the sun along the horizon after the long winter.

All through the dark months she watched the sun climb back north, little by little, reclaiming its ground from winter. Most people never saw the movement because it happened so gradually. But she did. She had been watching the same hills for many years and knew exactly where the sun should stand when the balance returned.

So on a certain morning near the beginning of spring, before most fires had been stirred awake in the houses, she walked quietly to the edge of the fields and waited.

When the sun rose, it lifted itself into the sky exactly between two distant markers along the ridge. Not leaning toward winter’s low road, and not yet stretching toward the high arc of summer. It stood in the middle of its path, perfectly balanced between light and dark.

The wise woman nodded once, as though greeting an old agreement being kept.

When she returned to the village she did not make a great proclamation. She simply told the first person she met, “The light has met the dark.”

That was enough.

People stepped outside their doors and looked at the sky in a new way. Farmers walked their fields and pressed the soil between their fingers, feeling the frost loosen its hold. In the henhouse, eggs had begun appearing again after the quiet winter pause. In the meadows beyond the hedgerow, hares moved through the grass with the restless energy that always seemed to arrive with early spring.

None of these things were taken lightly.

They were the signs people trusted.

Later generations would give this turning a name — Ostara — but the wise woman needed only the moment itself. The balance had returned to the world, and from that day forward the light would begin its steady climb.

The year had quietly turned.

03/20/2026

There are certain times of year when something inside us begins to soften.

Not in a loud or obvious way…but quietly, like water beginning to move beneath the surface.

April has always felt like that to me.

A season where emotions rise a little closer to the surface.
Where intuition speaks a little more clearly.
Where the heart asks to be listened to, rather than managed.

And this is where Willow meets us.

The Celtic tree of Saille — growing at the edges of rivers and wetlands — has long been a companion to those moments when we are asked to feel more deeply, not less.

Willow doesn’t rush or resist.
She bends. She listens. She allows.

Over time, I’ve come to understand that this is its own kind of wisdom, that our emotions are not something to fix or move past,
but something to move with.

On April 1st, I’ll be holding a live class on Willow as part of our Sacred Trees of the Celtic Wheel series.

This will be a gentle, reflective space where we explore:
– the lore and deeper meaning of Willow
– practices for emotional flow and healing
– a simple moon and water ritual
– and a guided reflection into your own intuitive landscape

It’s also a space to be in community, to hear how others are navigating their own inner waters, and to remember we’re not alone in what we feel.

If you’ve been sensing that pull lately…
toward quiet, toward feeling, toward something deeper…

I’d love to have you join us.

We begin at 7pm ET, live on Zoom.
You can find the details and register through the link.

https://friendsoftheforestct.org/events/hechtwmkk9f2ri2jk4303my7taawro-jh64t

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Essex, CT
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+18609041933

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http://friendsoftheforestct.org/

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