On the outside, I may seem dormant, but beneath it all, I am transforming. Like the fungi working on decay, I am breaking down what’s left of a former season into something fertile. The place I once called home has grown too tight, like an exoskeleton I have outgrown. I feel the pressure of it, the discomfort of staying within those invisible boundaries imposed by—who? Myself? My family? The world that seemingly stands in constant judgement of the individual while simultaneously caring so little for collective humanity?
Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Nonfiction
The Understory: Winter in Killiney Hill Park
Nestled along the southeastern coast of Dublin, Killiney Hill Park lies wrapped in winter’s embrace. Today, my dog and I set out on an adventure through its peaceful trails. The mutt bounds ahead, joyful and free, while I take my time, noticing the wonders at my feet. The sweeping views of the Irish Sea, framed by skeletal trees, are breathtaking, but it is the understory that holds my attention—the hidden world beneath.
Winter in the understory of Killiney Hill Park is a season of endurance, a simple dance of life pared back to its essentials. The air is sharp, its whistle slicing through the silence. With each breath, I can taste the crispness, almost metallic, as if winter itself is something tangible I could hold on my tongue. The vibrant colors of autumn have given way to the muted tones of browns, grays, and evergreens. The ferns—those once splendid, feathery arcs of Dryopteris filix-mas—curl tightly, their fronds brittle and browned, bowing in reverence to the cold. Ivy (Hedera hibernica), defiant against the season’s chill, weaves its way along trunks of hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna) and elder (Sambucus nigra), their leaves a deep, glossy green. Even now, in the season’s frozen grip, ivy’s resilience stands as a testament to its ability to endure, adapt, and thrive in an otherwise bare woodland.
Under a blanket of fallen leaves, damp and decaying, lies an organic patchwork comprising a sanctuary of small. The scent of decay rises from the woodland floor—earthy, rich, and almost sweet, a reminder of nature’s endless cycle of death and renewal. Bracket fungi (Polyporus squamosus) cling steadfast to the bodies of decaying wood, their ridged surfaces standing in quiet defiance of the frost. These fungi, with their semicircular caps marked in intricate patterns like fingerprints, break down the lignin and cellulose, returning the essence of trees to the earth—a gift that prepares the soil for spring’s rebirth.
As I kneel closer, I spot the tiny lanterns of Mycena fungi, translucent and delicate, poking through the moldering leaves. Fragile but fierce, they transform the detritus of autumn into fertile humus to nurture the life that still teems beneath winter’s stillness. Even in the coldest months, their continued work speaks of transformation.
Underneath this quilt of decay, the earth remains restless. Hidden away from the chill, small creatures carry on, unheralded and unseen. I imagine the earthworms (Lumbricus terrestris), burrowed deep below the frost line, devouring organic matter with unhurried movements. Their castings, those humble offerings, infuse the soil with nutrients, while their burrowing aerates it, allowing the roots of dormant plants to breathe, even as ice crystals linger.
Much like the forest in winter, I find myself retreating inward—a season of work beneath the surface. On the outside, I may seem dormant, but beneath it all, I am transforming. Like the fungi working on decay, I am breaking down what’s left of a former season into something fertile. The place I once called home has grown too tight, like an exoskeleton I have outgrown. I feel the pressure of it, the discomfort of staying within those invisible boundaries imposed by—who? Myself? My family? The world that seemingly stands in constant judgement of the individual while simultaneously caring so little for collective humanity? The rustic wool itch of expectations is rubbing me raw, and I know that the same safe patterns that got me through my own personal summer will not sustain me this winter. There is an urgency to change, a necessity to shed the old, to make space for something new.
My dog, nose to the ground, moves through the leaf litter, and I notice ground beetles (Carabidae) gliding like miniature knights of winter, their bodies dark and glistening, armor against the cold. Their journey is slow and deliberate, with mandibles poised to catch small creatures moving within the shadows. And there, almost imperceptible, are the springtails (Collembola)—minute and seemingly weightless, catapulting themselves through the air, tiny acrobats of the woodland floor. They feast on decaying leaves and fungi, aiding in the decomposition process, their movements like quicksilver; invisible to most, but vital to the cycle of renewal.
Lichens and mosses appear to glow in the dimming light. With the fading of more assertive growth, they become the stars of the understory, luminous in greens and grays, their colors as varied as sea foam or the twilight sky. The lichens, Cladonia and Hypogymnia physodes, cling stubbornly to tree trunks. They are dry and rough to the touch, yet they hold fast. The moss—feather-like Kindbergia praelonga—spreads across stones and fallen logs, their fronds gathering moisture from winter’s mist and wrapping the bones of the forest with the softness of life.
As I walk, I watch the animals move with practiced grace, their lives in tune with winter’s slower rhythm. The wood mouse (Apodemus sylvaticus), which scurried with urgency through autumn’s bounty, now moves primarily from shadow to shadow. Its fur, a soft blend of earth tones, blends seamlessly with the fallen leaves, and its bright eyes, wide and wary, flicker in constant vigilance. Each step is a careful dance, whiskers twitching as it listens for danger in the quiet of the encroaching night.
Foxes (Vulpes vulpes), cloaked in their long, winter finery, glide through the understory. Their thick and warm fur blazes deep red and burnt orange, a fleeting flame that stands stark against the increasingly monochrome backdrop. They patrol their world with elegance, the breeze perfumed with a faint musk as they pass. Their ears twist to catch the faintest murmur of movement, and their eyes glisten in the half-light of dusk, ever watchful.
It is the badgers (Meles meles) who have my heart, sleeping through much of the chill, sheltered in the winding comfort of their setts. But on nights when the frost relents, they emerge with a low, purposeful gait, their stocky bodies close to the forest floor. Despite their muscular build, there’s fluidity in their movement. Their striped faces seem painted against the moonlight as they shuffle and root for sources of sustenance, leaving turned dirt and claw marks tracing their path.
The forest whispers of hidden lives all around me. As I reach beyond the stillness, I find its subtle pulse, a quiet industry of survival where even the leaf litter cradles hopeful dreams in the form of countless seeds, each one resting, poised for the warmth to stir them to life. It feels as if the entire woodland floor is waiting, holding its breath in winter’s long pause, preparing for a grand release when the seasons turn.
As the sun slips below the horizon, my hound looks back at me, tail wagging as if to ask if it’s time to go home. It’s a loaded question. The compass of my heart spins on its axis, waiting for the magnetic pull of true north. Still, I cling to hope, cling to faith, while I learn to navigate by the light of dying stars instead.
Sleet needles my eyes as the weather takes a turn for the brutal. I tighten my hood, but sacrifice the scarf to my companion’s drooping ears, his face scrunched against the wind and the protective bulk of fabric wrapped tight. We leave the park to its cold, quiet work. But that night, tucked in bed with the pup curled at my feet, embers in the hearth consuming their source and fading to ash, I too dream of the promise of spring.
JD Sloan is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. She recently completed a six-month mentorship program with SiC’s former president, Stephanie Gayle. In addition to winning The Letter Review Prize, JD has been longlisted for the Heroines Women’s Writing Prize. She splits her time between the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia and Dublin’s sleepy coastal towns, and is currently querying what she hopes to be her debut thriller novel. If you would like to see more of her, she can be found on her website, www.jdtellstales.com, and on Instagram, @JDTellsTales.