Blissful Mornings -The Listening Ground: Stories from theSpirits of the Land

The Snow Beneath Her Feet

The snow had returned— not with a storm, but with a hush.

It blanketed the land in a white that felt older than color itself, a white that knew things, a white that remembered.

She stepped out from the wooden doorway with no destination,just the feeling.

That deep, bone-stirring feeling that something was calling from beneath the surface.

Not the snow. Not the trees. But beneath them all.

She wore a scarf hand-woven by a woman she never met and boots that had walked the dreams of someone else’s grandmother. She did not speak but she listened.

With every step, the crunch beneath her feet was like a language— a language of resistance and release,

of forgotten paths and frozen prayers.

She came to a small clearing, where the wind stilled, and the hush became presence.

And there, without vision or voice, she felt them. The watchers. The weepers.

The ones whose stories were buried beneath treaties, towns, and timelines.

They did not rise in anger. They did not demand. They simply… waited.

And she, a vessel made not of perfection but of patience, stood in the silence they offered her.

She closed her eyes and placed her hand upon the snow. A warmth came—not hers, but theirs.

A whisper followed—not of words but of permission. Permission to remember. Permission to translate.

Permission to speak, but only in sacred rhythm. And so, the ground became her page,

the snow her ink, the breath of the ancestors her compass.

She walked back, not with answers, but with a quiet task:

To paint with colors of soil and sprout.

To frame the unseen in gold.

To give voice, not volume, to the waiting ground.

The snow continued falling.

But now, it fell around her like a cloak. She was not just a woman. She was a listener.

And the land had begun to speak again.

-Bliss Chains Authors