Ode to the Land: Birdseed

By Kristine Karpinski

There’s a magic that I’ve come to look forward to every year at this time.

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 has a kind of alchemy in it — when the seed is first laid down it’s just an offering.

It starts with a few handfuls of sunflower seeds, cracked corn, and millet, but as soon as the birds begin to arrive — sometimes in flocks, sometimes just a lone cardinal or chickadee — it’s as though the world comes alive. There’s a quiet magic in watching birds take flight, land with such grace, and interact with one another over something as simple as food. Some mornings, there may be a solitary jay, bold and regal, claiming the best spot; other times, a whole chorus of finches, sparrows, and woodpeckers might create a lively, colourful scene. Other days the morning doves or ravens offer their own individual songs as they celebrate the seeds on offer. The space around the building here comes alive, not just with the birds, but with the stories they bring.

Around Yule, the sight of birds flocking to feed can feel particularly magical, as though the winter solstice is celebrated not just by humans, but by all living things.

But it’s not just the birds that bring this sense of magic. Lately, early in the day, after a fresh snowfall, I’ve been finding mink tracks winding through the yard, leading in and out of the thickets along the edge of the forest. The tracks are small but deliberate, a series of soft, narrow impressions in the snow that reveal the quiet passing of a creature much more secretive than the birds. There is something about these tracks — their graceful curves, the way they seem to disappear into the woods and reappear again in unexpected places — that feels like a riddle, a silent message from the wilderness.

Minks are creatures of stealth, weaving through the underbrush with a speed and agility that few can match.

Their tracks, unlike those of larger animals, seem almost playful, spiralling and darting in patterns that speak of secretive hunts and hidden adventures.

In many ways, I see a kinship between the mink and the birds that visit.

Both are creatures of the cold, both rely on the land in different ways, and both are connected to something larger, something timeless. The birds come for nourishment, their bright feathers against the white landscape reminding me that even in winter, life is vibrant and full of movement. The mink, on the other hand, is a reminder that the quiet, unseen world is full of mysteries and stories waiting to be discovered.

As the winter solstice marks the turning point of the year, the moment when the light begins its slow return, these small but magical moments — the scattering of birdseed, the delicate mink tracks in the snow — become symbols of resilience and renewal.

So, as I stand at the window, watching the birds and following the tracks across the snow, I find myself deeply grateful. Grateful for the way these small creatures remind me of the magic that exists everywhere.

Kristine hosts a variety of offerings - Sound Nidra, Mystery in Motion, etc. Check them out on our website.