Hiding in Plain Sight: Murmurs Among the Roots

The Garden in Winter

From the outside, not much is happening. But some things are hiding in plain sight, whispering beneath the soil.

The garden is quiet. I’m not hauling compost or turning soil. I pull a little parsley here, rosemary there when I need it, gather eggs and get a few snuggles from my feathered friends. I happily tuck into the winter stores of garlic that still smell faintly of soil and sun, even months later.

I’m feeling the Big Dark in its most physical form. Short days. Less movement. Life in slow motion. Whole weekends pass in what feels like torpor—sleeping in, spinning old records, watching postseason football, and long stretches of writing, letting the world narrow to what’s close and warm and necessary.

It looks a lot like inertia.
But inside, something else is going on entirely.

Hidden Life Beneath the Surface

I’ve been thinking a lot about the thrill and the beauty in things that hide in plain sight—hidden not because they’re secret, but because they don’t announce themselves. There is aliveness in the noticing. It may be January, but I love a good Easter egg hunt, don’t you?

I don’t get bored easily.
I never really have.

Even in the quiet, my mind is lit up—tracing threads in the ether, making unlikely connections, tuning into ideas that resonate. When the outer world slows, the inner one seems to tune itself more finely.

Creative minds don’t know how to be bored.
We know how to listen. And what we listen for tends to grow louder.

Listening to Stillness

When there’s less noise, you start picking up on subtler signals. Small shifts. A thought that keeps returning. A curiosity that refuses to let go. A sense that something is humming just beneath the surface, waiting to be dialed into focus. Silently asking you to listen.

That’s how this season feels to me.
Dormant on the outside. Actively alive within.

The garden understands this best of all. Even now—especially now—things are happening underground. Roots are thickening. Energy is being stored. Nothing looks particularly impressive on the outside, but everything is preparing. Including us.

What You Pay Attention To Grows

We cannot mistake stillness for stagnation. Attention itself is a form of movement, of cultivation. And not everything announces itself when it arrives.

So listen.

Stay close enough, quiet enough, to notice what’s already here—hiding in plain sight, waiting patiently, alive and humming, until the moment comes to bring them fully into the light.

Love,
Karin (with an eye)

P.S. For more thoughts on what lies beneath during the darkest days, you may enjoy this reflection on the winter solstice, or this piece exploring the idea of embracing dormancy.