The birds start before dawn when there is just a hint of light in the dark sky. I like to think they are greeting the day although there is a lot else going on to be sure. From territory disputes to nest building laying, incubating, or hatching calling to one another or, I’m just certain, singing because it’s morning.

It doesn’t matter how many decades I’ve been doing it. Every single year, when I plant vegetable seeds the size of a pin head into soil I am mesmerized and astonished when they sprout. Some are tenderly nursed along indoors establishing some roots before they are set in the garden-- exposed, then, to elements that both hinder and encourage their growth.

Solstice is a powerful teacher: the trickster who invites you to go out sledding on a moon-less night. Daring you to take a risk, to lean in, to stay with what is uncertain and unseen. She whispers in your ear as the sled starts to move, Your vision limits you here. Your desperation to see keeps you from seeing. In this place, we see not with our eyes, but with our whole being.

For the peace and promise of a sunrise. The quickening of breath that comes when we take in the beauty of our surroundings. For the mystery and humility of daring to see how we are all connected.

This fall season arrived with bountiful sun and rain. A blend that promises the extended version of high definition fall foliage. And so it is that I step outside to a day that is yellow. Yes, yellow. The color permeates everything: the scent, the feel, even the taste of the air is gloriously yellow, with hints of red and gold and a finish of russet oak leaves.

I promise this article isn't about diet and exercise. It's messier than that. For all of us who find wellness a sometimes elusive concept, I offer a snapshot of my own journey and an alternative to “wellness,” which I call Wild Wellbeing.

Remember the rhyme about April showers and May flowers? Well, it hardly does justice to the moisture that has fallen from the sky these past days. It's as if it rained green and the land responded with an eruption of lime and emerald hues.

If seasons were a four act play early spring would be the star of the second act: the shifty character that slips in and out of scenes, sometimes bright and lively stealing the show, other times lurking almost menacingly in the background.

Beneath ice, water stirs. Rivers still run. Lakes sway gently, as fish gather in warm water pockets; and beaver, otter, and weasels nestle in their dens moving about under their frozen ceiling.