Lindita and I, Punto de Roca Negra
I once believed an intention had to be grand—a quest for achievement, something that would turn heads and prove my worth. Yet when I drew my yearly intention, it arrived as a simple whisper: “dedicate to my gardens.” At first, I laughed. It seemed too soft, too humble. But beneath that hush, I felt a warmth drawing me in, insisting there was growth to be found in the quiet places.
The south shores of Ponce
Not long after, I found myself in Puerto Rico with my friend Lindita—a woman who carries her Albanian roots with vivid grace. She told me stories of her grandmother’s plum trees, heavy with fruit ripe enough to make jam and moonshine, the juices of tradition steeped in love. She recalled how willow trees once sheltered her heart with their gentle sway, and how she never fell for the neon allure of Fruit Loops. Real, unspoiled nourishment was her language, and the tenderness with which she spoke of home moved me.
Crashing waves and a Peaceful Warrior
We ventured from the postcard-perfect resorts into wild edges—craggy cliffs meeting the ocean’s roar. The sea heaved against the shore, powerful yet motherly, urging us away from the dangerous drop with each crashing wave. Nature felt both tremendous and nurturing, as though the island itself was guiding us, asking us to trust in something older and more profound than ourselves.
3x3 tiny pen and ink drawing of the north shore waves of Puerto Rico
All the while, I held my intention in a secret place at the back of my mind, letting the vivid palette of Puerto Rico seep into my senses. Every turquoise wave, every blazing burst of flora, spoke to me of richness, vibrancy, and the possibility of life blooming even in unexpected corners. Though I’d forgotten my paintbrushes, my pen was enough to capture little sketches in my journal—a reminder that sometimes all we need is a simpler tool to bring the moment to life.
Returning to the winter-bound mountains of upstate New York was jarring—cold winds and a blanket of snow replaced the island’s tropical warmth. Yet, my heart still throbbed with color and possibility. I’d imagined planting vegetables as soon as the earth thawed, but as Rob and I stood, gazing at the snowy yard, a new vision fluttered into view: chickens.
I could almost feel my inner child giggle. Chickens in the snow? It seemed absurd, but also enchanting—like a promise of springtime and fresh eggs hidden in a world of white. The idea felt as nurturing as any garden plot, a gentle rebellion against the austerity of winter. Tending living creatures is an invitation to slow down, to become aware of the rhythms of dawn and dusk, to let the turning seasons guide us instead of racing ahead. Our chickens would feast on scraps from the wholesome, home-cooked meals I’ve been craving—meals that reconnect me to the ways my ancestors once ate, honoring every morsel and letting nothing go to waste. Their eggs, in turn, would find their way into the homemade baked goods and treats Rob loves to whip up for my yoga students during workshops and classes, adding a little home-grown warmth to our shared practice.
And that, I’ve realized, is the heart of my devotion: to embrace the natural pace of life, to honor growth that is steady and patient, and to trust in the warmth that resides beneath cold surfaces. Whether I’m sketching on a tropical shore or collecting eggs in the snow, I’m cultivating the same seeds of care and curiosity.
So here I stand—or kneel, rather—leaning into the wonder of the coming months. This is my journey: a quiet conversation with the earth, with nature’s cycles, and with the gentle whisper that first invited me to plant my intentions in the soil of my everyday life. May it remind you, too, that sometimes the softest call can lead us to the brightest, most nurturing gardens—wherever we find them.