What a winter morning taught me about presence over productivity
A ninety-minute delay we didn’t see coming. Honestly, the storm itself caught us off guard too — a two-inch prediction that turned into nearly six overnight. We were supposed to have a swim meet. We didn’t. We were supposed to have work done on our basement, but a missed plow route changed those plans. The Monday morning commute stretched longer than its usual manic trend, as if the roads had somehow carefully narrowed themselves beneath banks of snow piled on either side. Like there suddenly wasn’t enough room on the roads anymore. Winter arrived carrying a full load of surprises.
But it wasn’t blocking life — it was rerouting it just ever so slightly.
That unexpected time, tucked into a 90-min delayed opening, made room for conversations a normal Monday morning never allows. And as I step into a new year, I’m beginning to realize I don’t need to plan harder or accomplish more to do lists. I need to listen better. Because the moments that don’t go as planned are often the ones that quietly teach us the most — if we leave space for them.
It was thirty degrees out, bright blue sky, the idea of an impending snow storm on the way seemed far away. This particular morning was the kind of cold I’ll take any day over forty-five degrees and gray. I went for a short bird walk in my yard, not expecting entirely too much from a December morning, when something large flew over my head.
A raptor. Maybe an owl. Probably not, but I couldn’t tell by the flight. A train was going by and all I heard was the clamor of steel on steel. An owl would have flown silently, but the train was all I could hear.
I never saw where it landed. But I followed the direction in hopeful anticipation anyway.
A few minutes passed, and then for thirty minutes, a red-shouldered hawk called through the frozen, barren branches. I never laid eyes on it — and I wasn’t mad about that. I could hear it clearly. And while I could have been frustrated that I didn’t get to see the bird, I realized something important: The point wasn’t to see the bird. It was to listen in that moment. I listened to a cawing blue jay too. Where they having a conversation? Did they want to share stories?
The shrill calls continued. Like a gull at the beach that just lost a French fry to his cousin, the hawk kept calling — over and over again. And I stood there, content, letting its voice light up the forest. The blue jay eventually flew away, or stopped nagging. I am not sure which.
Not seeing the bird didn’t diminish the experience of my morning.
Listening was the experience.
Birding teaches this lesson over and over again. We’re conditioned to want proof — photos, checkmarks, confirmation that something happened. But there are moments that don’t ask to be documented. They ask only to be held. Sometimes we go out in search of a particular species and are treated to something we didn’t expect.
While searching for the hawk, I climbed a hill, jumped a log, and found myself standing beside the giant sycamore in our backyard — its pale white, peeling bark glowing against the blue backdrop. It anchors our yard like a lighthouse, yet I usually only see it from my kitchen sink. Up close, it looked different. Alive. Textured.
That space — between my intention and the outcome — became the whole point of the walk. I intended to see the hawk. The outcome was only its call. And somehow, that was enough.
In hindsight, I wish I had touched the bark of that massive tree.
The moment I didn’t plan for became the moment that mattered most. In Japanese culture, there’s a concept called ma — the pause, the interval, the meaningful space between things. Not emptiness, but presence. The place where noticing happens.
Delays. Snow days. Canceled plans.
Not failures.
They’re ma.
A few days earlier, I found myself in a stationery store with time to kill — an errand between school pick up time stretched open by unexpected space. For the first time, I picked up a Japanese planner: the Jibun Techo by Kokuyo. Two years ago, I was in the same stationery store looking for the Hobonichi planner. I didn’t find it that day or the next year either. But this time, with the number 2026 on the front cover, there it was. Waiting. What drew me in wasn’t productivity. It was perspective.
There were phases of the moon built in. A section for life notes and ideas. It had a different vibe. And it wasn’t just the paper. Something that Japanese stationers are known for.
For years, my planners were about optimizing time — schedules, to-do lists, tracking performance, keeping up with things in blocks and squares. Japanese planner systems, by contrast, are just as much about noticing, reflecting, and adjusting. They ask not only
What did you do?
but
What did you notice?
The word Jibun means “myself”
So the question became this:
Do I want to beat myself up for not being efficient?
Or do I want to reflect on presence and moments?
Do I want to complain about the bird I never saw — or remember the sound of its call echoing through winter branches, and the way that sycamore bark looked different up close?
A mindful walk isn’t something conquered with a checkbox.
Because of the storm and the delays, we had room — room to do things we’re usually too rushed to notice. There was space in the margins.
There was ma.
So as you look toward the year ahead, already building mental checklists and resolutions, I invite you to try something different. What if each day held a small pocket of space? A moment to notice something unexpected. What if, instead of ending the day with a list of what you accomplished, you wrote down what surprised you? It will be interesting to see where this new planner takes me. Not toward perfection — but toward presence. Sometimes life doesn’t go according to plan. And sometimes, that’s exactly the point.
That Monday morning, slowed by delays, still had to move on. Recycling day meant I was already outside, feeding the birds. I walked the narrow, trodden path through the snow to the feeder and tossed in some seed. The sun was bright, and somehow it felt warm, even though the thermometer said thirteen degrees. As I turned away from the tray, I heard the same call from two days before. I stopped. Turned back. There she was — perfectly perched high in the sycamore’s canopy. One talon tucked up under her feathers for warmth.
I looked up and said, There you are. And I stayed there a moment longer than I needed to, listening. Letting the moment be.
One response
Very, very easy to listen to your latest blog. it’s surprisingly easy to slow down and listen to these unusual moments. Interesting combination of solitude and listening to nature and, you get no interruptions for commercialization of radio or TV. Keep it up. We will listen. what is the name of that famous ongoing back to the 1960s? I’m pretty sure it was the sounds of silence Simon and Garfunkel.