Today I am working in my yard, preparing for the colder months ahead. The air carries that familiar scent of turning seasons — a blend of earth, decay, and promise. I kneel in the garden, hands pressing cool soil around a cluster of peony roots — thick, knotted, and full of hidden life. Their skin is rough and earthy, holding the memory of last season’s bloom and the quiet potential for the next. I know that once they’re covered by the dark, I won’t see them again until spring. Months of cold will pass. Snow will come. And still, I plant.

Then I scatter fall wildflower seeds into the freshly tilled earth. Some will bloom late this season, while others will rest beneath the surface until spring. I love planting wildflower mixes native to this region of Utah because it’s always a surprise to see what emerges later. I plant with the intention of appreciating beauty in the future, but I don’t have a clear image of what that vision will look like.

There’s something deeply spiritual about this ritual — about trusting the unseen. Planting bulbs and seeds in fall reminds me that creation always begins in the dark. We don’t get the bloom without surrendering to stillness first. We don’t get clarity without letting something die away. This is nature’s rhythm — and it’s the same rhythm that governs our inner lives.

The Womb of Creation

This brings me back to a memory from years ago when I regularly practiced shamanic journey meditations. There was a period of six to eight weeks when every journey led me to the same place — a dark, formless void.

I was used to meditations filled with color, texture, and vivid symbolism, so at first this endless black space frustrated me. I felt “stuck.” But over time, I began to recognize this void as the place before creation — the nothingness from which all life is born. It was like resting in the womb of Mother Earth, waiting until the vision was clear enough to begin its bloom.

Eventually, this phase passed, and I emerged with enormous growth. That experience taught me to surrender and to trust that the Universe’s plan may be greater than even what I can see for myself.

The Paradox of Vision: Darkness Before Light

When we speak of “vision,” it’s easy to think of bright ideas and clear direction. But in truth, every vision begins as mystery. The moment we pause — stop striving, stop seeking certainty — something new begins to form.

The darkness, the not-knowing, is not a failure of clarity. It’s the fertile ground where clarity is born. And each time my ego tries to rush this stage, I end up disappointed.

Our culture tells us to figure things out quickly, to push toward goals and define outcomes. But real vision doesn’t arise from pushing; it unfolds from presence. When we rest, when we let the noise settle, we create space for wisdom to rise naturally — like shoots reaching toward sunlight after a long winter.

Planting as a Spiritual Practice

As I press each bulb into the ground, I’m reminded that the soil doesn’t need to understand what it holds. It simply receives.

Planting becomes a meditation — a way of aligning body, mind, and spirit to the sacred process of becoming.

• Preparing the soil mirrors how we prepare our inner landscape through rest and reflection.

• Planting the bulb is an act of intention — not knowing how or when it will bloom, but trusting that it will.

• Watering is faith in action — a small, consistent reminder that nourishment matters even when results aren’t visible.

Visioning works the same way. We don’t need to force the outcome; we simply tend the conditions — softening, clearing, and showing up with presence. The more tightly we cling to a specific outcome, the longer it seems to take. Yet when I open to the possibility that the perfect conditions might lead to something far greater than I could have imagined, signs of progress appear more quickly — gentle affirmations that the process is unfolding as it should.

Vision Rising: The Alchemy of Waiting

Nothing about this process is linear. The peony doesn’t bloom faster because I check the soil each day. My own visions don’t clarify because I demand them to. They clarify when I allow time and stillness to do their work.

There are seasons when the most productive thing we can do is rest. When the outer world slows, the inner world deepens. The subconscious — like soil — rearranges its nutrients, allowing new ideas, desires, and directions to take root.

As someone who tends to run cold, I once dreaded the winter months. But along my yoga journey, I began to understand how to work with the seasons instead of against them.

Winter has become my time to turn inward — to rest, dream, and set the conditions for future growth. Spring brings the first shoots of new beginnings — action, emergence, refinement. Summer becomes the peak of energy and manifestation, a time to appreciate the blooms and harness the long days of light. Then autumn arrives again — a season of reflection, harvest, and preparation, of composting the lessons and releasing what must fall away.

We are no different than nature.

Clarity comes not from doing more, but from being with what already is.

The waiting is not empty; it’s sacred.

The darkness is not absence; it’s incubation.

Even when we can’t see what’s forming, the roots are spreading.

A Practice for You: Plant Your Own Vision

This week, I invite you to make this practice your own.

Go outside — or to a small pot of soil in your home — and plant something. It could be a bulb, a seed, or even a written intention you bury beneath the surface. As you do, breathe slowly. Feel the quiet weight of the earth. Trust what you cannot yet see.

Then, take a few moments to journal or reflect:

• What vision is quietly forming within me, even if I can’t yet name it?

• What am I being asked to trust without proof?

• How can I nurture clarity through rest instead of striving?

• What seed of intention am I ready to plant in faith this season?

Let these questions be your invitation to soften, listen, and trust the unseen cycles of your own becoming.

The Promise Beneath the Surface

By the time spring returns, my garden will hopefully bloom with peonies — each one a reminder that life unfolds in its own divine timing.

The work of vision isn’t in forcing the bloom. It’s in tending the soil of the soul.

When we rest, we remember that the future isn’t something to chase; it’s something already growing inside us, waiting to rise.

If you’re ready to explore this rhythm more deeply, I invite you to join me for my Vision Rising webinar — a sacred space to rest, reflect, and plant what your soul is ready to grow.