January in the Midwest invites a recurring visitor, one that arrives donning its proudest protesting attire. It boldly states, in Arial Black font, “I DID NOT CONSENT TO THIS COLD,” and if it had a face, surely two rosy cheeks, cherry ChapStick, and a pair of tired but resilient eyes would be looking back at you.
Common catchphrases include: “PHHEWWWW” (a noise emission meant to acknowledge or draw attention to the cold temperatures), “That wind’ll get ya,” “Where is your coat?” (said in a tone that implies you’ve lost your mind), and my personal favorite, “Why do I live where the air hurts my face?”
The range of temperatures we experience in the Midwest offers us an up-close perspective on the duality that exists within each season. Winter, January especially, has historically been a time I wrestled with finding joy in the past. It has never felt like a beginning to me, but rather a time of deep rest and sorting as we make our way toward spring (a time that truly feels like the “new year,” at least to me). I have been doing my best to honor that over the past several years and now celebrate January with garden planning, Territorial Seed Company Spring Catalog style. Why yes, Mexican sour gherkins can be grown in Zone 5. Honorable mention for Spring 2026: the Dragon Tongue bush snap bean. It’s going to be magical out there this year, folks.
The journey I have been on for the last several years has largely focused on how to respond productively in the present moment to facilitate peace within myself. When I look back on my journey now, it’s hard to believe that I was once so afraid of being seen, at the height of my agoraphobia, that I would stop singing in the car if another vehicle was approaching, doing my best to stay invisible.
The woman I have uncovered along the way says “yes” now. I have lost one hundred and fifty pounds, wear the same pants size I did in seventh grade, and can walk around in the light of day without being afraid. There has been a grieving process as I allow myself to recognize what fear once kept me from, alongside a reclamation of my agency. The steadier I have allowed myself to become on the inside, the steadier I have become on the outside. Silence feels like a cherished friend; stillness is now a welcomed visitor, and so is January.
The energy of thresholds is one that begins with stillness. It is birthed from the heart and feels like an awareness of outgrowing clothing: toes cramped in the front of a shoe, a blister warning your heel. And like Mercury, fate delivers its messages through signals, not sermons. It’s easy to judge ourselves in moments of transition, questioning why we don’t yet have the answers and judging ourselves and others when they aren’t immediately found. But the curious nature of stillness is what’s revealed if we allow ourselves the time to question it. The solution is not always immediate, and the process we undergo while discovering what comes next is often what’s required of us to move forward in the first place.
I have been doing my best to consciously choose presence within my own life as I feel myself moving through this threshold we’re experiencing as a collective community. Lately, the inside of my heart has felt like a sit-down interview with Barbara Walters. My fears about our country’s future have felt impossible to ignore, and at times I feel like I am treading water, doing my best to be an instrument of peace and helpfulness in a world that feels completely exhausted. I have felt insecure about how confused I’ve been, unsure of where I want to be or what I want to be doing, allowing the emotions to move over me like a wave.
Transitioning through temperatures of “feels like -3 degrees” offers the ideal opportunity to quite literally go within (the dang house and close the door). But I’ve been in this “place” of not knowing for months now, imagining the doorway would arrive in the form of an external cue, feeling frustrated and igniting my drive like a box of matches. My journal is filled with mornings that begin by asking: “What would You have me do now, MotherFather God?” “What would You have me ask now?” “What would You have me know?”
“MotherFather God, if only You will share with me what to do today, only that is what I will do. Also, MotherFather God, please share with me what You would not have me do today, and I will not do it.”
These prayers, ways of connecting with MotherFather God that I learned from A Course in Miracles, have completely changed my life. And still, the frustrated human in me questioned the experience: “Surely there is something I am missing here.”
The answer hasn’t been glamorous, and there was no trumpet echoing in the backyard behind the garage when it arrived. But it has been the light guiding me ever since, and I felt led to share it here in case it can be helpful for you too:
You are not being asked to figure anything out right now, and nothing is missing. The guidance that continues to surface points you away from seeking answers externally and toward trusting what you have already integrated. Stillness is not a pause or a delay, but an active state where clarity settles naturally, without force. Rather than pushing for direction, the invitation is to live what you already know, choosing steadiness, simplicity, and self-trust over urgency. When something feels lighter, quieter, or requires less effort, that ease is not avoidance; it is confirmation. Let relief be your compass, and allow yourself to move forward without explanation, justification, or the need to arrive anywhere all at once.
Applying that guidance in real time has meant allowing myself to stay present in my body while my mind scrambles for solutions my heart knows can only be met by time. I do my best to choose from a place of connection and resonance now, something I feel like I’m just beginning to explore. I’ve allowed myself to live for the first time without an agenda beyond the present, and to feel excited and alive in my body. And it feels really good.
Where stillness once felt like a detention hall, it now feels like a permission slip. A quiet invitation to be here now, not to wait for clarity to arrive, but to recognize that it often does so gently, through presence rather than pursuit. Stillness has become the place where what I’ve already learned is allowed to settle into my body, where integration replaces urgency, and where the external reshapes itself in response to internal steadiness. Nothing needs to be forced. Nothing needs to be rushed. Sometimes, the most honest movement forward begins by allowing ourselves to stay.
Elizabeth Modene 
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