This winter has been colder than others.
Not harsh, just present. The kind of cold that asks you to notice how you arrive in a space.
When I step into my lounge/home office—I turn on the portable heater.
Then I open the curtains and the blinds, even though the glass still holds the chill.
Outside, everything is quiet.
The basketball court across the way is empty this time of year.
No movement. No noise. Just a stretch of crisp white snow that feels untouched, waiting.
On some days, when it’s snowing, I stand there a little longer.
Looking out. Appreciating the beauty of it.
Grateful that I get to stay indoors and witness it without needing to be anywhere else.
There’s a hare that visits sometimes.
It moves through the garden as if it belongs there—which, I suppose, it does.
When I notice it, I open the blinds a bit wider.
Not to startle it. Just to let it know it’s safe to linger.
And it does.
For a few days at a time.
That quiet trust makes me smile.
Before I sit down, I hold a gentle hope—that the people I love, near and far, are safe.
Even the ones I no longer speak to.
Even the ones who only pass through my thoughts now and then.
Then I take my place at the desk and begin the day.
Throughout it, I find myself returning to the window.
Again and again.
I don’t rush these moments.
I don’t time them.
I simply pause.
I truly live the practice of Take a Moment—not as an idea, but as something I return to with my body and breath. And no matter how many times I look out at that winter view, it grounds me all the same.
This is how I root myself in the day.
~from the sanctuary