Where The Silence Breathes’s Substack Podcast

017 - Under the Dripping Canopy

Sunday morning dawned gray and sodden, with the rain continuing its slow, deliberate fall from the sky. It lacked the sharp urgency of the previous day's storm, but the weight of the weather still settled over everything like a damp wool blanket. The thunder was gone now, leaving behind a steady drizzle that tapped softly on rooftops and slid down windowpanes in long, meandering lines. The sky held no promise of clearing, but the healing woman felt a different kind of restlessness today. The kind that didn't call for blankets and books, but for boots and a camera lens. Her youngest son, still sleepy-eyed but willing, agreed to come along without protest. He’d emerged from his room earlier than usual, already dressed, his camera bag casually slung over one shoulder. When she offered him his rain parka, he grumbled only slightly before pulling it on. Their silent rhythm was familiar, and their unspoken understanding of each other’s moods made preparation effortless. They moved through the apartment like a pair of dancers who knew the steps by heart—packing extra water bottles, a few Redbulls, and two Caramello bars she had tucked away with quiet intention. Thanks for reading Where The Silence Breathes’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. The drive to the preserve was uneventful, the roads slick and glistening with fresh rainfall. They listened to the patter of drops against the windshield, the swish of wipers keeping pace with their thoughts. Neither of them filled the quiet with conversation, and neither of them needed to. The air was already full of sound—the hum of the tires against wet pavement, the groan of distant wind through the trees, and the near-constant hush of the rain. By the time they arrived at the trailhead, the world felt soaked through. The trees at the edge of the preserve shimmered with moisture, their trunks darkened, their leaves heavy and dripping. The canopy above seemed to sigh under the weight of collected water, letting it fall in slow, rhythmic drops that struck the forest floor with a sound somewhere between a whisper and a kiss. Everything looked richer in color—mosses gleamed neon green, the soil was black and dense, and even the fallen leaves from weeks past seemed newly alive, slick with water and pressed against the earth like forgotten photographs. They zipped up their rain parkas, the sound loud and plasticky in the otherwise subdued stillness. The material crinkled with every movement, an inescapable rustle that grated at her nerves as they began their walk. Each step seemed to amplify the noise, and she winced slightly as the swishing of their sleeves caused a pair of birds to vanish from a nearby bush before she could even lift her camera. She tried to shrug it off, but already she felt the fragile magic of the morning slipping through her fingers. Despite the constant noise of their gear, they continued on, moving deeper into the trail where the canopy thickened and the sound of rain grew more distant, absorbed by the dense foliage above. She focused her breathing, slowing her pace to match the hush of the woods. The animals, however, were scarce. What little wildlife stirred darted away before her lens could find them. A rabbit, startled by the rustling of their hoods, vanished into a thicket before she could focus. A woodpecker high in the trees shifted branches just out of reach, never staying still long enough to frame. She clenched her jaw against the frustration, reminding herself that sometimes the forest asked to be observed without being captured. Rather than chase what fled, she shifted her attention to what stayed. The forest offered plenty, even if it wasn’t alive in the way she had expected. A spider’s web stretched between two thin saplings caught her eye, each thread heavy with water droplets that glistened like glass beads in the muted light. She crouched low, ignoring the cold dampness that crept into her knees, and framed the shot with care. The web sagged slightly under the weight of the water, its pattern intact but delicate, its lines bent yet unbroken. She captured the image and then another, adjusting the aperture to bring out the detail in each drop. Nearby, her son was studying the base of a tree where bright orange fungus bloomed like flames along the bark. He didn’t speak, but the click of his shutter echoed softly in the space between them. They moved through the woods like that for some time, each drawn to small, silent wonders that asked nothing more than to be seen. She photographed the veins in wet leaves, the spiral patterns of soaked bark, the shimmering reflections in shallow puddles that caught the trembling canopy above. The world around them glistened with stillness, and for the first time all morning, she stopped mourning the absence of motion. At a wide bend in the trail where the ferns grew dense and low, they paused. She unzipped her pack and handed her son a Redbull and one of the chocolate bars. He grinned at the sight of it, tearing the wrapper open and taking a generous bite. “Best part of hiking in the rain,” he mumbled through a mouthful of caramel. She chuckled and took a sip from her own drink, the sweetness cutting through the damp chill that had settled in her chest. They sat side by side on a low, moss-covered log, the canopy dripping steadily above them, droplets landing in tiny bursts around their feet. Her legs ached slightly from crouching, and her hands were damp despite the gloves, but she didn’t mind. Her son leaned back against a tree, boots resting in the mud, eyes still scanning the branches above. There was no rush to move. They had already found what they hadn’t known they were looking for—a kind of shared quiet, grounded in texture, patience, and presence. When they resumed walking, the forest seemed to accept them more fully. Perhaps it was her expectations that had softened. She no longer moved through the trail searching for deer, waiting for birds to reveal themselves. Instead, she found purpose in the rain-lacquered leaves, in the steady tap of water against stone, and in the small pools that gathered in the hollows of tree roots. By the time they reached the end of the loop and the parking lot came into view through the trees, her camera’s memory card was nearly full. Not a single frame held an animal, yet her heart felt full in a way she hadn’t expected. She had documented something quieter than movement—the resilience of the forest in the rain, the perseverance of beauty in overlooked places. As they peeled off their wet parkas and stowed their gear in the car, her son turned to her and asked, “Did you get anything good?” She looked at him, smiled, and nodded. “I got what I needed.” And as they drove away, the woods receding in the rearview mirror, she thought not of what she had missed, but of what she had learned to notice when she finally stopped chasing the fleeting. Thanks for reading Where The Silence Breathes’s Substack! This post is public so feel free to share it. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com [https://wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

016 - The Storm Within

The storm arrived slowly on Saturday morning, its voice low and restless—rolling thunder that barely stirred the curtains in her apartment but echoed steadily through her bones. The healing woman had sensed it coming even before the sky turned. There was always a subtle pressure shift before a storm that her body seemed to feel first—something in her breath, something in her spine. She had known it would rain today, and she welcomed the excuse to stay inside. She had no plans to cancel. She never did. Her life had been pared down to its quiet essentials: the stillness of her apartment, the slow pace of her shifts at work, the few errands she ran when necessary, and the green solace of the preserves and trails. She no longer met friends for coffee or sat in noisy restaurants making small talk. There had been a time when she might have. But over the past few years—especially since her mother passed—her desire to be around people had waned in ways she didn’t always have the words to explain. Thanks for reading Where The Silence Breathes’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. The only friends she truly spoke to now were online—scattered across states and time zones, threaded into her life through messages, the occasional phone call, and long, meandering conversations typed out late at night. They knew parts of her story, but none of them knew her in the physical spaces she inhabited. They didn’t see the way she moved through her home or sat quietly with her tea, or how she carried herself like someone always preparing to disappear for a while. The people in her daily orbit—coworkers, store clerks, the customers she served—only knew the exterior she offered. Kind. Efficient. Reserved. It had become easier this way. That Saturday, her younger son had risen late and disappeared into his room not long after breakfast, armed with snacks and headphones. The low rumble of his video game and muffled commentary spilled occasionally from beneath his door. He was close, and yet wholly absorbed in his world. She didn't interrupt. She understood the need to retreat. The rain began in earnest around midmorning, a steady rhythm against the window panes. It wasn’t a gentle spring shower but a full-bodied storm—thunder punctuating the air like slow drum beats, wind gusting through the trees outside, and rain hammering the sidewalks with a kind of relentless intention. The sky, cast in deep gray, made the apartment feel dim even with the lamps turned on. Three of her cats had claimed their spots across the living room—one curled like a comma on the windowsill, another stretched across the armchair, and the third pressed against her leg on the couch. Their unspoken companionship brought a kind of quiet stability she needed on days like this. They required nothing but her presence, and they gave her the same in return. She sat curled in her usual corner of the couch, wrapped in a blanket, a cup of chamomile cooling slowly in her hands. Outside, water gushed through the downspouts, pooling on the asphalt and forming rivers between the curbs. She watched it trail past the cars and bend around the corners of the sidewalk, endlessly pulled forward, pulled down. The world outside seemed far away. Inside, the stillness was thick and complete. Her son’s door remained closed, and the only movement came from the flick of a cat’s tail or the occasional shift of her own legs beneath the blanket. This kind of quiet, so different from the natural silence she found in the woods, had a weight to it. It was the kind of silence that reminded her she was alone. She didn’t mind the solitude—not in the traditional sense. She had long since made peace with being by herself. She didn’t miss crowded places or forced conversations. But the truth of her loneliness ran deeper than preference. It was shaped by something far more personal—by grief. Her mother had been gone for several years, and still, there were days when the ache of it rose like a tide that caught her off guard. On quiet days. On stormy days. On days when the sky felt like a mirror for everything she couldn’t say out loud. Most people in her life had moved past it, if they’d acknowledged it at all. Online, her friends were kind, but distant. No one asked about her mother anymore. No one really understood that the ache didn’t disappear with time—it simply grew quieter, more intricate, more bound to the fabric of her daily life. And when she did mention her mother—her voice carefully measured, her words chosen with care—there was often an awkward pause. A quick change in topic. A gentle suggestion that maybe she should let go. Some even dismissed her reflections altogether, as if her continued grief was indulgent or misplaced. But she hadn’t moved on. Not really. And she didn’t feel ashamed of that. She rose from the couch slowly, her knees stiff, and carried her empty mug to the kitchen. The storm raged harder now. Rain swept in sheets across the glass. Trees bent under the wind’s pull. She paused at the window, watching droplets stream down in dozens of parallel lines, each one tracing its own path before slipping away. She pressed her hand to the cool glass and closed her eyes. Her mind, almost instinctively, reached for the preserve. She imagined the trees lining the marsh, soaked and darkened by the storm, their bark slick, their leaves glistening with water. She pictured the winding trail through the woods—muddy, puddled, still beautiful. The lake would be nearly invisible beneath the fog, the surface rippling in rhythm with the rain. In her imagination, she sat at the lake’s edge, water lapping near her boots, the woods whispering behind her. The storm, in this space, was not a weight but a cleansing. Her grief, carried into the woods, no longer felt misunderstood. It belonged there. It could be spoken there without judgment. The kettle whistled, and she opened her eyes. She poured a second cup of tea, stronger this time, and returned to the couch. One of the cats shifted to make room for her, curling around her hip as she settled in. She opened her notebook—not to write at first, but simply to hold it open across her knees. She turned to a blank page, stared at the paper, and then slowly began to write—not in complete sentences, but in the shape of thoughts: The storm outside matches the one I carry. Grief doesn’t leave. It changes shape. Sometimes I forget the sound of her voice and it breaks something small inside me. The words flowed quietly, steadily. She didn’t pause to reread them. She wasn’t writing to explain. She was writing to make space for her feelings to exist somewhere other than inside her chest. As the storm moved on—still heavy, but less chaotic—the apartment settled back into rhythm. Her son laughed at something through the wall. A cat stretched and blinked at her. The rain softened. The grief, while still present, felt a little less sharp. She folded the page carefully and closed the notebook, setting it beside her on the couch. She wasn’t ready to return to the world, but she didn’t need to escape it either. The storm would pass. The woods would wait. The lake would welcome her back. And so, for now, she let herself sit in the quiet, a little more whole than she had been an hour before. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com [https://wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

015 - Lake Reflection Morning

She woke early that Wednesday; not because of an alarm or obligation, but because the restlessness that had tugged at her all week finally loosened its grip. The sun had barely begun to lighten the sky, yet she was already moving with purpose. Her younger son was in school, and for the first time in days, she didn’t have to clock in, listen, serve, or smile if she didn’t feel like it. The day belonged to her, and she knew exactly where she needed to be. Thanks for reading Where The Silence Breathes’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. She filled a small thermos with hot tea and packed her camera, an extra lens, and a weathered notebook she hadn’t opened in some time. There was no breakfast, only a quiet urgency that pushed her out the door. She drove through the soft blue of early morning, the streets half-asleep and empty, the world not yet fully awake. Even her thoughts were quieter. There was no playlist today. Only the rhythmic hum of the tires and the soft whisper of wind pressing through the cracked window. The preserve greeted her in half-light. A soft mist hung low over the trees and grass, clinging to branches and collecting on the edges of wildflower petals like dew. The gravel beneath her tires was muted by the moisture in the air, and when she stepped out of the car, the sound of her boots pressing into the wet ground was barely audible. She wrapped her cardigan around her tighter and breathed in the layered scent of earth, bark, and the early hints of algae rising from the water. Instead of taking the familiar path past the marsh and meadow, she turned directly toward the lake. It had called to her in a way that felt instinctive—not loud or demanding, but magnetic. There was something she needed to face there, something waiting just below the surface, like the water itself. The trail to the lake curved gently through a wooded section where the fog was thickest. It coiled between tree trunks and hovered just above the ground like a memory made visible. Sunlight had not yet reached this part of the preserve, and the world felt suspended—soft, grey, and absolutely still. The only sound came from the rustling of a few small birds high in the canopy, breaking the quiet only briefly before vanishing again. As she neared the water’s edge, she slowed. The lake emerged gradually from the fog, a broad mirror stretched across the forest floor. It was perfectly still, untouched by wind or movement. The reflections it held were so precise that for a moment, she felt unsteady—as if sky and earth had merged and she had stepped into something otherworldly. Trees rose from both above and below, duplicated in such detail that it became difficult to tell where the shoreline ended and the mirrored world began. She raised her camera and began to work slowly. The shutter clicked gently in the morning quiet, capturing layered reflections—pine branches overlapping with clouds, lily pads floating above their own mirrored shadows, the faint shimmer of the rising sun filtered through fog. Each frame held more than beauty. It held silence. Precision. Presence. These weren’t just photographs. They were small acts of reverence. She moved carefully along the water’s edge, watching her breath rise in front of her, curling like the mist that danced above the lake. Then she paused. Across the inlet, barely visible through the fog, stood a blue heron. Tall, statuesque, and impossibly still, it balanced on a submerged log, its head tilted slightly downward, eyes trained on the water below. Her breath caught. She adjusted the lens and focused slowly. The heron didn’t flinch. It remained motionless, a silhouette etched against the lake’s surface, as if painted into the scene rather than born from it. She clicked the shutter once, then again. The sound didn’t disturb the bird. It was too far, too absorbed in its own moment. Still, she lowered the camera and simply watched. Something about the bird—its poise, its discipline, its solitary elegance—stirred something deeper in her. A memory emerged without invitation. She hadn’t thought about that morning in years: her mother standing by the kitchen window, staring out at the garden as steam rose from her mug, hands wrapped tightly around the ceramic like it was the only thing anchoring her to the room. The image had lived quietly in her for a long time, unspoken and unresolved. But now, by the lake, with the heron standing in the same quiet alertness, it resurfaced fully, like something long submerged. She remembered how her mother’s silence that day had filled the entire kitchen. How she hadn’t asked for help but had needed it. How, even then, as a teenager still learning her own shape, the healing woman had known something was breaking in her mother—something fragile, like glass held too long in trembling hands. And just as quickly as the memory arrived, so did a wave of emotion. Not sharp. Not overwhelming. Just full. She didn’t cry, but her eyes brimmed slightly, and she didn’t blink them away. She let them rest there, soft and present. The heron remained still, only its neck moving slightly as it studied the water. Then, with one elegant motion, it spread its wings and lifted into the air. The flight was silent, effortless. The bird cut across the fog like a brushstroke, trailing its shadow below on the lake’s mirror. The healing woman watched until it vanished beyond the trees. She sat then—just sat, not photographing anymore. The fog began to lift, thinned by the warming light. The lake shimmered brighter now, less mysterious, more tangible. But still beautiful. Still sacred. She pulled out her notebook and wrote a single line: “Stillness doesn’t mean nothing is happening.” Then she closed the cover, stood slowly, and walked the path back through the trees. The mist clung a little less, and the sun warmed the top of her shoulders. Her breath came easier now, fuller. What she carried with her wasn't gone. But it had shifted, softened, made room for something more. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com [https://wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

014 - A Meadow to Hold the Silence

Tuesday had offered her little space to breathe. It wasn’t that anything extraordinary had gone wrong—there had been no confrontation, no burst of tears, no sharp words or accidents. But the day had unfolded in the familiar rhythm of depletion: customers who lingered too long, coworkers who asked too much without knowing it, and the soft, persistent pressure of always needing to be “on.” As she wiped down the last table and slipped off her apron, she could feel the invisible weight pressing down on her shoulders—not pain exactly, but a heaviness of the spirit that needed to be shed. She didn’t go home. Her younger son was already there, curled up on the couch with his headphones in, lost in whatever online world helped him unwind from his school day. He didn’t need her right now, not in the way he once did. And her older son was working the late shift, clocked in at the warehouse and likely counting the minutes between deliveries. Neither of them would miss her absence this evening, and for that, she felt a small and quiet relief. What she needed tonight wasn’t conversation or company. It was stillness. Instead of turning toward her apartment, she steered the car toward the preserve. The sky ahead stretched wide and open, streaked with soft light—the kind of fading sun that painted everything in rose and amber tones. She cracked the windows and let the breeze roll in, thick with the smell of warm grass and the last hint of honeysuckle. There was no music playing. She didn’t want lyrics, didn’t want stories told to her. She only wanted to feel the hum of the tires on the road and let her breath find its rhythm again. In the passenger seat, she had packed only the essentials: a small cloth bag with her leather-bound journal tucked inside, a pen with gold ink, and a thermos of tea she’d poured before leaving work. Her camera stayed home. She’d deliberately left it on the shelf, knowing that tonight wasn’t for capturing images. It was for listening. For paying attention without the pressure of getting it right. The gravel lot at the preserve was nearly empty, just one other car tucked at the far end beneath a fading maple. She stepped out, stretching her back and rolling her neck slowly. The trail greeted her with the familiar crunch of earth beneath her feet and the faint scent of mint and pine rising from the path. She moved without urgency, her steps guided by a quiet internal pull that led her toward the meadow. She passed the edge of the marsh, where frogs murmured low in the reeds and dragonflies flitted through the air like sparks from an unseen fire. She paused briefly to watch the water ripple beneath a gentle breeze but didn’t linger. The sun had begun its descent behind the trees, casting long shadows across the path. She wanted to reach the meadow before it disappeared completely. When the trees opened, revealing the wide expanse of golden grasses and wildflowers, she exhaled. The meadow shimmered in the waning light, a soft ocean of color and motion. The air was filled with the sound of crickets tuning their instruments for the evening’s chorus. Blooms of Queen Anne’s lace and blue vervain nodded in the wind, their stems swaying gently, as if greeting her with a language too old for words. She found her usual spot beneath the old oak tree whose limbs stretched wide over the edge of the field. The roots spread like quiet fingers into the soil, and the grass beneath it had been flattened over time by many visits—some her own, some by deer or foxes or the wind itself. She lowered herself carefully, crossing her legs and letting her hands fall to her thighs. The journal rested in her lap. For a while, she didn’t open it. The world around her was breathing. She watched the light shift from gold to violet, the sky changing moment by moment as the sun sank lower. The warm tones softened into cooler hues, casting everything in a muted glow. Shadows stretched longer across the meadow, and the details began to blur, not into darkness but into a softer kind of seeing. Eventually, she opened the journal. The pages felt cool against her palms, the gold ink catching what little light remained. She began to write, slowly, not to document the day but to release what lingered behind her eyes and at the base of her throat. “There’s a silence here that holds me differently. Not like the silence of a house after everyone’s gone to bed, not the silence of holding back tears—but the kind that breathes with you. The kind that makes you feel whole even when you aren’t.” The words came in slow waves, not rushed but steady. She wrote about how her legs still ached from Sunday’s fast-paced hike, about the way her younger son had barely looked up from his headphones, about the moment earlier at work when she had smiled even though her chest had felt tight. She didn’t need to solve anything on these pages. She only needed to name what she carried, and in naming it, let it loosen its hold. As she wrote, the fireflies appeared. At first, just one—hovering a few feet away, blinking once, then vanishing. Then another. Then a dozen. Soon the meadow pulsed with tiny lights rising from the grasses, flickering and drifting like fallen stars looking for a place to land. She set the journal aside, leaned back on her elbows, and watched them dance. There was something profoundly ancient in their movement. No pattern, no command. Just presence. Just light. She stayed there for as long as she could, watching the field shift into darkness, her body relaxing into the earth. The crickets sang louder now, and a single owl called from the distance—its voice deep and slow, echoing through the canopy. The fireflies floated around her in silence, unafraid. She didn’t take a single photograph. She didn’t need to. When she finally rose and brushed the clinging seeds from her skirt, she felt quieter inside. Not empty—but cleared out. Like someone had swept a dusty room and opened the window. The walk back to the car was slow. The stars had begun to blink awake above the treetops, and the wind had cooled enough to make her pull her cardigan tighter around her shoulders. She opened the car door, placed the journal on the seat beside her, and sat for a moment longer before turning the key. The world would be waiting for her tomorrow. Her sons would need her. Work would call. But for tonight, the meadow had reminded her that silence could be enough—and that sometimes, being unseen was exactly what she needed to feel seen again. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com [https://wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

Light Between the Branches

By Sunday morning, the healing woman could feel the weight of the previous day in her thighs and shoulders. It was the kind of soreness that lingered not as a complaint, but as a physical reminder of time well spent. She had kept up with her son through the preserve’s hills, meadows, and marshes—and it had been worth every breathless moment. But today, her body asked for something slower, something softer. Thanks for reading Where The Silence Breathes’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work. Her tea steeped while the early sun streamed through the kitchen window, painting long beams across the floor. As she added a splash of honey, she glanced over at the table, where her camera sat waiting in its case. Her fingers itched for it—not to document movement or keep pace, but to pause, to focus, to capture the delicate details she often passed by when walking fast. Her son entered the kitchen already dressed, the hint of a grin curling at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t ask where they were going—he had sensed the shift in mood the way only someone who understands you without needing explanation can. Instead, he pulled on his sneakers, tucked a lightweight hoodie under his arm, and slipped a small camera into his jacket pocket. They said little on the drive. They didn’t need to. The silence between them had always been comfortable—filled not with avoidance but with understanding. The healing woman drove with the windows cracked, letting the scent of pine and freshly cut grass drift into the car. As they pulled into the shaded parking area of the preserve, a familiar calm settled over her. The sun was higher now, casting a warm wash over the tree line. Birdsong filled the air, layered like notes in a song without structure. The path ahead shimmered in places where dew still clung to tall grass, and the wild stillness of the preserve beckoned like an old friend. She adjusted the strap on her camera bag and looked to her son. “Let’s take the hill trail,” she said. He nodded and fell in step beside her. They started slowly, moving through the stretch of flatland near the meadow, letting their legs warm up. The tall grasses waved gently in the breeze, and early summer flowers—purple asters, coreopsis, wild bergamot—nodded as they passed. Butterflies floated lazily over blooms, and the hum of bees offered a steady rhythm beneath the breeze. They stopped briefly under the wide limbs of their usual oak tree, taking a few sips of water, but didn't linger. From there, they entered the wooded hills, a quiet section of the preserve that felt somehow more ancient, more untouched. Sunlight spilled through the canopy in long, angled lines, catching floating pollen and suspended dust, making the air sparkle. The ground was soft and rich, blanketed in last autumn’s leaves and scattered with pine cones and brittle twigs. Her son walked just ahead, slowing his pace to match hers. Occasionally, he’d snap a picture—of the way a vine curled around a tree trunk, or the delicate cap of a mushroom peeking from under moss. But mostly, he stayed close, his presence steady and silent, a quiet anchor that allowed her the space to be fully immersed. The healing woman paused at the crest of a small hill. A nuthatch clung to the side of a nearby tree, creeping upward in short bursts. She raised her camera carefully and captured it just as its tiny head turned in profile. A moment later, a pair of chickadees zipped through the branches above, their wings stirring the leaves in quick flutters. Below, among the fallen logs, a gray squirrel paused mid-scamper and sat upright, nibbling at a piece of bark. She crouched, zoomed in, and caught the tension in its tiny fingers, the curve of its ear. Then, to her surprise, a chipmunk joined the scene, hopping onto a low stump and sniffing at a patch of lichen before darting away. The forest felt alive, and she was moving through it not as a visitor, but as someone being let in—quietly accepted by the rhythm of its creatures. Her son stood a few feet away, capturing the soft silhouette of the trees above. Their eyes met briefly. No words were needed. He saw what she saw. They spent over an hour in the hills, following trails that twisted gently between hemlock and birch, stopping every few minutes to observe or photograph something small—a beetle crawling across a sunlit rock, a feather lodged in the crook of a branch, the way the light dappled across tree bark. Eventually, they descended toward the marsh, where the light grew brighter and the air thickened slightly with the scent of water and fresh algae. The buzzing of insects increased, and the wooden boardwalk creaked softly beneath their steps. The healing woman moved slowly now, her camera in hand, eyes scanning the water for lilies. When she found them, blooming in soft pinks and pale yellows, she knelt at the edge of the boardwalk and leaned forward, angling her lens low. A bullfrog, green and golden, blinked at her lazily from a lily pad just feet away. She waited, let the moment settle, and captured the image just as the frog raised its chin. Then, near the reeds, she saw them—a cluster of water snakes, long and slender, gliding slowly in the warm shallows. Most would have stepped back. She stepped closer, crouched low, and adjusted her camera settings. They moved with grace, their bodies trailing ribbons in the water, never in a rush, never disturbed by her presence. One curled onto a partially submerged stone, resting its head in the sun. She took several photos, each one quieter than the last, each one more about reverence than documentation. Her son stood behind her, watching with curiosity, though he did not approach. When she finally stood again, he handed her her thermos. “Peaceful,” he said simply. She nodded. “Very.” They stayed there for a while longer, sipping tea and watching the snakes weave between the lilies, frogs croaking quietly around them. It wasn’t just about seeing today. It was about being allowed to witness, about slowing down long enough to match the pace of the wild things. As they walked the final stretch of the trail, the sun lowering behind the tree line, she felt her body pleasantly worn and her mind cleared of its usual noise. Her son walked beside her, not saying much, but occasionally glancing down at his camera with satisfaction. Back at the car, they packed their gear and sat in the quiet before starting the engine. “Want to go through our photos tonight?” she asked. He nodded. “Let’s pick the best one.” She smiled. “We’ll print it.” And as they drove away, the healing woman glanced once more into the trees, the leaves rustling gently in the wind behind them, and felt herself held by the stillness they were leaving. Her lens had captured so much—but it was the stillness that stayed with her most of all. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com [https://wherethesilencebreathes.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]