The air had finally warmed after a frigid snap. Temperatures in the mid-30s, with the sun fully out, felt like a quiet invitation back into the woods.
Winter is my hibernation season. I love settling into the living room, fire going, catching up on movies and shows I’ve been saving all year. There is comfort in staying still.
A light snow covered the ground, and the woods felt mostly still. The silence was broken only by bird calls and the sudden skampering of a squirrel through the leaves.
At one point, a pileated woodpecker, a Carolina wren, an American crow, and a blue jay were all calling at the same time. Different voices, different rhythms, sharing the same December air.
As I walked, I found myself thinking about the passage of time, especially as it relates to my son.
Winter light has a way of slowing everything down.
I thought about how to connect with him now, in this season of becoming. My mind kept returning to a line from My Dinner With Andre:
“A baby holds your hands, and then, suddenly, there’s this huge man lifting you off the ground, and then he’s gone. Where’s that son?”
I kept thinking about all the years we walked these woods together. Those walks felt like a golden season in our family. Easy. Uncomplicated. Full of presence.
Things are still good. Our family is still strong. But it takes more intention now. More patience. More listening. Holding everything together feels less automatic than it once did.
Winter narrows the river to a single choice.
As I turned back, a bald eagle came low over the river. Below it, a tight cluster of geese huddled in the only stretch of water not yet taken by ice.
With each slow circle of the eagle, the geese grew louder. Warning. Alarm. Stay together.
Eventually, one bird broke away. The eagle followed, moving upriver, steady and patient, until they disappeared from view.
Where the ice ends, life crowds in.
Winter has a way of narrowing the margins. It presses everything closer together. It forces movement when stillness is no longer an option.
I walked home thinking about seasons, about how closeness changes shape, about how staying connected sometimes means learning a new distance. Not resisting what is, but paying attention to it.
The woods were quiet again. The river held. For now.
A forgotten basement became the most meaningful room in my home — a quiet sanctuary built for music, learning, and slowing down. Inspired by my dad’s garage and Philippe Dufour’s morning ritual, this space reminded me that sanctuary isn’t a destination. It’s intention, light, warmth, and one small corner you claim for yourself.
A quiet Thanksgiving walk turned into a surprise adventure when we uncovered a hidden geocache that has been sitting in the woods since 2011. A new family memory, a handwritten note, and a fresh reason to explore the outdoors.
Discover how a simple walk in the woods can reset your relationship with your kids. Learn how nature creates space for connection, healing, and real conversations.
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