The Unseen Work of Transformation
Yesterday I walked through the orchard under a sky the color of pewter, the kind of February sky that feels low enough to touch. Snow lay in clean, unbroken drifts between the rows, and the cold was the kind that settles into your bones—honest and unyielding. The trees stood motionless, their branches etched sharply against the winter light. Everything appeared still, almost suspended, as if time itself had slowed to match the season.
And yet, this deep cold is its own kind of protection. In a winter like this—consistent, quiet, reliably frigid—the roots can rest without confusion. The trees receive the dormancy they require, conserving energy, storing strength, preparing in ways we cannot see. Nothing is stirring too soon. Nothing is being tricked awake. The orchard is held safely in its necessary stillness.
There is something comforting about knowing that transformation can happen without any visible sign of progress.
Lately I’ve been thinking about that kind of hidden work—how much of our own becoming happens beneath the surface, long before anything breaks through into our visible life. I often don’t even know when I’ve stumbled into a new collection. A series reveals its themes only after a few paintings have taken shape. I’ve learned to trust the process. These weeks have carried their own hush for me, a sense that something is forming quietly in the dark of my days, but not ready to be named or revealed. It’s an underground season, and it asks for patience, protection, and trust.
I used to equate growth with activity, with movement, with clear direction. But winter keeps teaching me that some of the most important work happens in stillness. The roots do not rush. The trees do not hurry toward what comes next. They allow the cold to do what only cold can do—provide rest, strengthen, concentrate, deepen. Their readiness is gathered slowly, layer by invisible layer.
I’m learning not to judge my own progress too early. Not to assume that because the surface of my life looks quiet, nothing meaningful is happening underneath. Dormancy is necessary for good health. The orchard reminds me: dormancy actually leads to becoming.
Maybe you are in a similar season—one where life feels calm, perhaps even uneventful, and yet something within you is quietly shifting. Maybe you’re preparing in ways you can’t yet articulate. Maybe you’re holding energy for a future you’re not yet meant to see. All of this is valid. All of this is holy. The invisible stages of transformation matter just as much as the visible ones.
What if the work happening beneath your days is already enough, even if it hasn’t taken shape above ground?
May these February days remind you that the unseen work is never wasted, and that staying rooted in the quiet is its own form of growth.
