When Winter Opens the Door: 10 Days of Small Enchantments
Silence, snow and sketches: journalling the last leaves of autumn
Greetings from the moss, and if applicable ‘Happy Thanksgiving’.
Early Letters were built of ‘noticings’ in short, dense prose. The writing has felt harder this year—perhaps I have been too conscious of it. To recondition that muscle, I’ve once again begun to make daily notes of those small enchantments, the things that shift the needle on the day, and to include them in my journal. This week, I am sharing the ‘beads’ I have collected over the past ten days; together I hope they form a pretty necklace to mark the time When Winter Opens the Door here.
Monday: A snow sky, pink and yellowish From the hills to the strath it begins Snow falling before the final leaves Clearing to show the emphasis it has placed on the muirburn
Tuesday: The silence that always precedes… as if breath held lest the spell be broken Collecting leaves before they are hidden Alder, newly divested, a litter still extravagantly green. Later, they make hills. Only the oak stubbornly resists gravity The afternoon becomes shrouded, then white
Wednesday: The world anew, our mistakes rewritten Snow fallen, more promised So many birds around the feeder; the birch branches are decorated. A first, feisty brambling. The wood is still messy, but magical too.
Thursday: The white of sky, of snow, turned wet and heavy, heavy enough to slip from dark green pine and burgundy red birch.
Friday: -10C Snow, encrusted: When autumn meets winter Colour dots willow, birch, oak against iced branches Birch and broom bend and bow, and remain, frozen
Saturday: Trafficked ice like glass Brilliant sunshine, all a glimmer Birch now dark against the white but backlit with countless tiny baubles Sketching outside, pulling in snow Blue shadowed, collections of contour and canopy, it is decorated with the last of the leaves, fallen in the night.
Sunday: The sky soft, the hills shrouded. Every so often a gasp of breath lifts from the snow fields. The mood carries onto the open page before the darkness of bare branches insinuates. Pages grow birch and pine, flecked with bronze and a little gold in memory of the lost leaves. Despite the rain, winter lingers in snow and ice; autumn has packed her bags and is closing the door.
Monday: A fine drawing of marjoram, dark against the snow, catches my eye across the breakfast table. It prompts me to reach for my camera. Here I lose myself for a while in layered fractures between dark and light. I never ‘tidy’ herbaceous plants in autumn; it deprives birds of seed, insects of shelter, and the eye of beauty.
Heavy rain until mid afternoon, clearing in time to chill. Green and brown re-emerging, finally. Later the finest waxing crescent moon hangs low and large, the colour of flesh.
Tuesday: Colour has returned to the land but the mood has changed and the chill lingers. Even a southwest wind will be cold now, carrying the Cairngorms in its mouth. Sunlight brings riches: the last leaves of golden birch illuminate the manuscript of a clear sky. Low sun paints the trunks and branches of pine in copper.
Wednesday: Pink light primps the sky’s bruises before the curtain closes on the sun. Puddles carry musical scores written in ice. Leaves and seeds of birch dot the remaining patches of snow. A rattle of the last dry leaves on beech as the wind picks up; the oak still resists.
Yes, it has been pretty, but now the remaining snow and ice feels like a party guest that has stayed too long. My bones long for drier days. Cold is fine, but dark damp much less appealing.
It is in these moments—observing the fine drawing of marjoram against the snow or sketching the decorated birch branches—that the work begins. Sharing the process of collection and creation here has been a joy. If you enjoyed this glimpse into my journal, or if these words inspire your own noticing today, your support helps keep the ink flowing and the pages turning. You can contribute to my next sketchbook or simply buy me a cuppa below.
It was lovely to hear that you enjoyed last week’s celebration of imperfect beauty; thank you for sharing your thoughts with me, and for those much needed warm cups of tea.
Until next week,
Words and images copyright © Michela Griffith 2025 except where otherwise credited
Beautiful, Michaela.
Gorgeous everything Michela! Especially Monday's watercolour... you've captured not only the shade of winter but the feeling also — beautiful!
This autumn - winter cross over has been one to remember here, it's the first time in twenty years I have known snow fall in November while the leaves are still clinging to so many trees!