Winter’s Lesson in a Cup

Dear Readers, like many of you this morning, I woke up to snow.

Not the frantic type of snow, instead it was a gentle wave that arrives overnight like a blessing.

Everything outside looked softened. Trees held their breath. Roads moved more slowly. Sound itself seemed padded, as if the world had been gently tucked in.

Snow carries a very particular frequency. It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t explain itself. It doesn’t ask permission. It simply blankets.

Energetically, snow is a great equalizer. It turns the complicated landscape into something simple again. It hushes the noise of doing and invites the sacred art of being. Winter is not an ending, it's a pause and snow is winter’s handwriting.

Snow teaches us that there are seasons when growth looks like stillness. There are days when progress looks like rest and there are moments when being covered is actually being protected.

This is a very profound observation to me, as we live in a culture that worships movement,  while snow worships pause.

It proclaims: “Let what is busy sleep.” “Let what is loud be quieted.” and in that quiet, something inside us begins to go within and listen.

As the day unfolds, the snow is no longer just a gentle visitor — it is becoming a storm. By tonight, the flakes will turn into wind and movement, sweeping through the mountains like winter clearing its throat.

There is something powerful about this shift. Snow in the morning feels like a gift. Snow at night feels like a reckoning. The storm reminds us that winter is not only about hibernating — it is also about reshaping. Branches bend, some break. Old leaves finally let go. The air is stirred clean.

Energetically, a winter storm is like a deep exhale from the earth and wind. It moves through saying: “Let what is heavy fall.” Let what is unnecessary be carried away.” Where the morning snow blanketed, the night storm reorders. This is how winter teaches in layers: First, it comforts and then, it clears. 

And on a day like this I thought... this tea cheers on this vibration: Asheville's Snow Day Tea.

This tea doesn’t stimulate — it holds. It feels like wearing comfy thick socks, while watching snowflakes fall peacefully as the world slows down.

Sitting inside with a warm cup of Snow Day Tea, while the storm gathers outside, feels like being held inside a seasonal ritual.

The cacao keeps the heart warm. The peppermint keeps the mind clear. The marshmallow root reminds the body that protection can be gentle. It’s as if the tea and the storm are working together: One warming from within ,with the other sweeping from without.

Life does this too. There are times when we are gently covered — and times when we are thoroughly stirred. Both are part of renewal. Both are part of preparation. Both are part of the quiet promise that something new will emerge when the sky clears again.

As the wind began to lift the flakes into motion, the day seemed to say: “Not every moment is meant for blooming. Some are meant for clearing the way.”

Here’s to snow-covered mornings, winter storms at night, quiet cups, and the grace of being held and reshaped by the season.