There is something quietly magical about writing out your thoughts – the ones that circle and spark and refuse to settle.
We can be seated at the table, windows open, birdsong drifting through the Grove, and still feel our minds racing like a coming storm. I’ve come to notice how easily moods gather, even out of season, how a single passing cloud can swell if I choose to sit beneath it too long.

In the Grove, I see how much my inner weather affects the outer air. When I hold emotions too tightly – when I tuck them into my pockets and carry them far longer than they were meant to be carried – they begin to crackle. Not because they are wrong, but because they were never meant to stay. Feelings, like seasons, are meant to move.
This early March has brought new greens to the meadow… and also moments of tension. There are people in my life whose words land like sudden lightning – sharp, unexpected, asking something of me that I no longer know how to give. Breaking generational patterns is not always gentle work. It sometimes feels like standing in a storm while trying to build something softer at the same time.
Lunaris, my fox companion, stays near when the thunder rolls. She does not try to fix the weather. She simply rests beside me, warm and steady, reminding me that I am allowed to feel what I feel. Her quiet presence softens the crackle.
And Corven – sharp-eyed and honest – circles above. He reminds me to look inward. To ask myself: is this storm entirely theirs? Or is there something within me still learning, still untangling? His call is not always comfortable, but it is true. There are mirrors I would rather not face – and yet they hold the work that still waits for me.
I wonder how many of you, friends of the Grove, recognize this feeling. When someone hands you their unrest, do you carry it longer than you should? Do you amplify it – good or bad – instead of letting it pass through in its proper season?
I am learning to ground what does not belong to me. To press my hands into the soil, to let the energy move back into the earth rather than lodge in my bones. And sometimes, I am still learning simply to sit with it awhile – to understand what it reveals before I release it.
The storms still come. They whip through branches and bend meadow grass. Some of them come from those who shaped me. That truth can ache. But each storm also teaches me something – about boundaries, about reflection, about the quiet power of choosing differently.
Perhaps this is part of the magic – not casting spells outward, but tending the inner landscape with honesty. Breaking patterns begins not with perfection, but with awareness.
Can you relate?

With warmth and tea,
Mae Everly Grove 🫖

1: What emotions or thoughts have you been holding onto longer than their season?

2: How do you typically weather inner storms – do you sit with them, or try to push them away?

3: What is one small way you can begin to release something back to the earth, when the time feels right?