Finding Time in Winter's Quiet
I lost track of time this morning, watching snow settle on the spruce branches outside my window. Not in the hurried way we usually misplace hours, but slowly, deliberately. The grey light of dawn stretched into morning without my noticing, each snowflake adding its own minute contribution to the growing silence.
Winter in New Brunswick has its own relationship with time. The early darkness and long nights naturally disrupt our scheduled lives. Nature herself seems to invite us into a different rhythm, one that exists beyond our carefully measured increments.
We've grown so accustomed to dividing our days into productive segments that we've forgotten how to simply dwell in time's natural flow. Our devices still buzz and our calendars remain gridded, but outside, snow falls at its own pace, unconcerned with our schedules.
What if we allowed winter to teach us about time?
This isn't about abandoning responsibilities or surrendering to seasonal lethargy. It's about recognizing that some experiences resist measurement. The way twilight softens the snow-covered landscape, how silence deepens between passing cars, the gradual shift of shadows across a sunlit wall - these moments exist in their own temporal space.
Try this: Choose one winter morning to sit with your coffee or tea without checking the time. Let the steam rise at its own pace. Notice how the light changes through your window. Allow yourself to exist in winter's slower rhythm.
These timeless moments aren't luxuries we can't afford. They're essential sanctuaries where we remember what exists beyond measurement: the quiet between heartbeats, the pause between thoughts, the space between snowflakes.
This morning, watching snow transform the world outside my window, I discovered something curious: when I stopped trying to use time efficiently, I started experiencing it fully. In letting go of that hour, I found something far more valuable - the simple grace of existing within winter's quiet measure.