Six Women, One Forest, and Heartprints Along the Fall Line
When we gathered at the Big Tree in Five Mile Woods for Gentle Sediments and Sturdy bedrock, , something deeper than a walk began. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw the first photo of us—my inner voice shouted, "We look like rock stars!"
Six women, stepping into the forest and into the depths of their own being, each carrying her own story, her own season of change.
Though one of our dear guides, Pam, stood behind the camera in that first photo, a second one—the "ussie"—captured her alongside us, where she belonged. A whole circle. A living community.
Each woman brought her heart to the trail in a way that left a lasting imprint:
~ Shelly, gathering seeds and tiny spring plants, feeling the small beginnings beneath her fingertips.
~ Beth, drawn by an unfamiliar bird’s song, later finding herself face-to-face with the largest woodpecker she had ever seen, at the very sit spot she chose by the creek.
~ Rosemarie, following a trail of heart-shaped signs scattered along the earth, each one a quiet affirmation.
~ Pam, reconnecting with her softest side, recalling a poem she once wrote—a piece of her still alive and thriving.
~Sherry, spoke of the moment she opened her eyes and the forest answered—a lush, verdant green unfurling around her, vivid and alive, blurring the edges of time and memory, and carrying her back to the wide-open wonder of younger days.
And me, listening to how the forest holds its own—fallen trees cradled in the arms of their neighbors, trunks gently cooing in the breeze as they leaned into one another’s support.
Along the winding Fall Line, we paused—not just our bodies, but our busy minds.
Breath became a thread tying us to the earth below and the trees above.
At our sit spots, we became part of the landscape itself—still enough to notice the stream’s voice, the stretch of sunlight across a branch, the unseen touch of air shifting between trees.
We practiced being with whatever arose, allowing the forest to mirror our own quiet awakenings.
Moments like these remind us: mindfulness isn’t just a practice. It’s a way of belonging. A way of remembering what is steady, and what is always ready to bloom.
We crossed a threshold that day—a threshold of expanding community, resilience, and deep belonging. It wasn’t something that could be fully explained. Like the forest’s embrace, like the flowing water at the Fall Line, it had to be felt.
The footprints we left are not just pressed into the muddy paths of Five Mile Woods. They are pressed into each other's hearts, into a growing web of kindness, strength, and care.
This is the gift of gathering, of slowing down, of letting nature meet us exactly as we are.
Gentle Sediments. Sturdy Bedrock. And a quiet knowing that we are never truly alone.
If your heart feels called to walk further, stay close—something new is stirring. "Whisper" is on the horizon, and you are warmly invited.
