from the Ninth Wave Arts caretakers

There is a kind of magic that returns each year at this time—something quietly anticipated.

It begins with a handful of birdseed, and the sudden appearance of tracks in the snow. Both become reminders of the life and stories unfolding around us, even in the coldest, darkest days of the year.

Birdseed carries a kind of alchemy. At first, it is simply an offering—sunflower seeds, cracked corn, millet scattered across the ground. And then the birds arrive. Sometimes in flocks, sometimes a lone cardinal or chickadee. With their arrival, it feels as though the world comes alive.

There is a quiet wonder in watching them—taking flight, landing with grace, interacting with one another over something so simple as food. Some mornings, a solitary blue jay appears, bold and regal, claiming the best spot. Other times, a chorus of finches, sparrows, and woodpeckers gathers, creating a lively, shifting scene of colour and motion. On other days, mourning doves or ravens offer their own songs, carrying sound through the still air as they partake in the offering.

The space around the building comes alive—not only with the birds themselves, but with the stories they bring.

Around Yule, this gathering takes on a particular resonance. The sight of birds flocking to feed can feel like a shared celebration of the solstice, as though the turning of the light is being marked not only by humans, but by all living beings.

And it is not only the birds that carry this magic.

In the early hours, after fresh snowfall, mink tracks have been appearing—winding through the yard, weaving in and out of the thickets along the forest’s edge. Small, deliberate impressions in the snow, marking the quiet passage of a creature far more elusive than the birds.

There is something in these tracks—their graceful curves, the way they disappear and reappear—that feels like a riddle. A silent message from the unseen.

Mink move with stealth, slipping through underbrush with remarkable speed and agility. Their tracks, unlike those of larger animals, carry a certain playfulness—spiralling, darting, tracing the paths of hidden hunts and unseen journeys.

There is a kinship here between mink and bird. Both are creatures of the cold. Both move in close relationship with the land. Both speak to something larger, something enduring.

The birds arrive for nourishment, their bright presence against the white landscape a reminder that even in winter, life is vibrant and in motion.

The mink offers something different—a reminder that the quiet, hidden world is equally alive, filled with mystery and story.

As the winter solstice marks the turning of the year—the moment when light begins its slow return—these small encounters become symbols of resilience, of continuity, of renewal.

Standing at the window, watching the birds and tracing the paths left in snow, there is a deep sense of gratitude. Gratitude for these small beings, and for the way they reveal the magic that is always present—waiting to be noticed.