This reflection is shared as a spoken piece in the video above, layered over time-lapse footage from the work at Cambridge Cemetery. You are welcome to watch and listen, or to read the essay below.
Winter has been calling me back into my body.
Not in a poetic way, at least not at first. More like a quiet insistence. Cold air on my skin. Muscles waking up as I lift, carry, and steady myself on uneven ground. It is in the smell of damp leaves and old stone. The sound of wind moving through bare trees. The simple weight of being here.
I can feel the difference in myself.
For the last six months, much of my work has lived in words, written reflections and long-form pieces that moved thoughtfully through ideas. Embodiment has always been there, through breath, walking, and listening, but often alongside the reflection. This winter, the work is asking to come first, and the words to follow later, if they are needed at all.
This winter, something has shifted.
I feel less interested in explaining and more interested in doing. Less drawn to long essays and more drawn to movement and labor. I am enjoying being outdoors until my hands are cold and my legs are tired. I have noticed a small tension in me around this change, as if I should be producing something more articulate or polished. But when I listen closely, the call is very clear.
Come back to the body.
Come back to the earth.
Let the ground do some of the teaching.
So my Substack has been changing with me. Fewer long pieces. More video. More time-lapse and quiet observation. Not because I have nothing to say, but because right now, I am learning again how to listen.
This week, that listening took place at Cambridge Cemetery.
Cambridge is one of the oldest burial grounds in this area, with graves dating back to the early 1800s. It is a small place, tucked into the land, holding generations of memory. Some of the earliest graves are marked by thick, flat stone slabs, heavy and solid, originally set atop short square columns, roughly two feet tall, made of stone or early concrete.
Time has taken its toll on those monuments.
Many of them are cracking, crumbling, or beginning to lean under a weight they were never meant to carry forever. In some cases, trees have grown so close that their slow expansion is pushing the stones, threatening to topple them. Gravity, weather, and time are doing what they always do.
So we made a decision to intervene gently.
We used the tractor with pallet forks to lift the stones, working one at a time. We lifted the flat stone off each marker, then laid its short column down on its side within the existing foundation. We ended up doing two of them this way, keeping everything together, nothing removed or discarded. Once the columns were settled, we set the flat stones back down on top, now resting close to the ground. The markers are preserved, and all of the original materials remain together. Most importantly, the stones no longer stand a chance of falling and breaking.
This was slow, heavy work. It required attention and cooperation as we worked together to move, guide, and settle each piece safely. This was not the kind of work where you can afford to be a bull in a china shop. It asked for presence, patience, and care.
As we worked, something in me settled.
There was no need to rush. No need to narrate. Just hands on stone, feet in leaves, and breath finding its own rhythm. The past held carefully, not propped up beyond its strength, but set down with care.
That feels like winter to me.
Not a season of collapse, but a season of grounding. Of lowering what has been held too high, and letting things rest where they can endure.
I am realizing that this season of my life does not want me in my head as much. It wants me in my muscles, in my breath, and in my senses. It wants me to gather experience first, and let clarity arise later, without pressure.
So if my writing feels quieter right now, or if my posts lean more toward movement and image than explanation, that is not a retreat. It is a return.
A return to the body.
A return to the land.
A return to a kind of knowing that does not require so many words.
I trust that what needs to be said will come in its own time.
For now, winter is teaching me how to stay close to the land.
Wherever you find yourself this season, I hope you are listening for what winter is quietly offering you too.
Below you can find the full time-lapse of the work at Cambridge Cemetery. This version is shared without narration, just the work itself unfolding.
If this reflection or the videos resonate with you, I would be grateful if you would like and subscribe on YouTube, and follow along here on Substack.
Thoughtful, timely and inspiring as always, Keith. Bless you for sharing from the heart...with love, Jim