Last spring, at my request, my husband installed an owl house in the tallest tree of our backyard. It was a modest structure with bare wood and no paint — just a square welcome mat in the sky.
We followed every bit of advice we could find — mount it high, angle it just so, leave an open flight path. Then we waited.
For months, nothing. No sign. No sound.
Until one night, she called. Not with a bedtime story hoot, but with a haunting, questioning sound — a lingering thought that wouldn’t go away.
And then, quietly, subtly, the owl made her home.
It wasn’t until her babies arrived that she revealed herself fully. One morning, I spotted her perched tall and still on our backyard fence — a sentinel. Her eyes swept the horizon, her movements calm and calculated. She made no sound. She didn’t need to. Her presence said everything.
When danger neared — our curious dog, a bold coyote along the creek bank — she didn’t panic. But when she raised her voice, it cut through the quiet with unmistakable clarity: sharp, strong, and fiercely protective.
She was always watching. Always listening. Always there.
I’ve thought about her a lot lately. Especially now, as the holiday season wraps itself around us with all its expectations, travel plans, and emotional complexity. This time of year brings a quiet pressure to be somewhere — to do something — to gather, host, and travel. And beneath that lies a yearning for connection, for belonging, for presence.
The owl — silent most days, hidden in the trees — reappeared a few days ago. Without making a sound, she flew in and sat perched high above me. When I spotted her, I was reminded that presence doesn’t always mean performance. Sometimes it’s a quiet watchfulness. Sometimes it’s showing up when it matters, even if no one sees you arrive.
She didn’t decorate her nest. She didn’t overextend herself. She simply was there — and that was enough.
This holiday season, I find myself trying to be more like her. Not rushing, not proving, not perfecting — just being present.
The owl house is quiet now. Her babies have flown the nest. But some nights, I still hear her call — a single note in the dark, a reminder in the distance.
She’s not demanding attention. She’s simply telling her family: I am always here.
That’s the kind of presence I hope to offer my loved ones — not flashy or loud, but steady and certain.
In this month’s issue, we share some thoughts on the best place to spend the holidays (The full story appears on page 10). This year, wherever you find yourself — at a childhood home, around a borrowed table, or in the in-between spaces — I hope you’ll remember this: It’s not the setting that matters.
It’s the people. It’s the love. It’s the quiet, purposeful ways we show up for each other.
Like the mama owl, watching over her nest, we are at our best when we are grounded, present, and connected.
And that, to me, is what the holidays are all about.
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