One chilly winter morning, while we were still living in the suburbs, I bundled up my tiny son in his stroller and stepped outside with my husband for a short walk. The sun was shining, bright and low, but the air had teeth. We could see our breath with every step, and the cold pressed through our layers and into our noses. Still, we walked on for a bit, moving slowly along familiar streets that felt sharper and more exposed in winter.
We came to a small clearing beside the road where a river cut through the neighbourhood. Most of it was frozen, edged with snow and dull ice, but there was a stretch of open water still moving. We stopped there, leaning slightly toward the sound, and noticed how alive it was. Dozens of ducks filled that narrow channel, quacking and bobbing, shifting places and dipping their heads under the surface. There must have been close to fifty of them, crowded together in that small pocket of moving water.
We stood longer than we planned, just watching. In a Canadian winter, it can feel like life has stepped away for months at a time. Trees are bare, gardens are quiet, and birds are harder to spot. But there, beside a road, life was still going about its business. The ducks weren’t dramatic or symbolic. They were simply doing what they needed to do, finding what was available and staying where conditions allowed them to keep moving.
Winter often hides its activity. Rivers flow under ice. Roots hold steady beneath frozen ground. Animals gather where food and water remain accessible. When we slow down enough to notice these small signs, winter starts to feel less empty and more reserved, like a season that keeps its movement close to the surface and asks us to look a little longer.
If today allows, step outside and notice where life has concentrated itself. It might be birds near open water, seed heads still clinging to dried stems, or light catching on frost along a fence or branch. Linger for a moment where something is still happening, and let that be enough for the day.
