How I Learned to Connect with the Present Moment

And how I’m struggling to maintain that connection today

Three years ago, almost to the day, I was facing another busy season at work. By mid-April each year, through September, I’d be working at least 60 hours a week. I’d have to wake up before dawn and talk to staff members while brushing my teeth and eating breakfast. The days were filled with site visits, conflict resolution, emergencies, event planning, data collection, and coaching. And at home, I was never off the clock, emailing, working remotely, and taking phone calls until midnight.

The spring of 2017 was only my third year at that job, but I was already feeling the effects of the stress. I both loved and hated the busy season. It was the only time of year when I had the pleasure of working with my seasonally-hired staff members and a time when I was able to do what I did best — but it came at a great price.

There was no such thing as managing my stress there. I tried so hard, I really did. Breath work, meditation, yoga, walking… But I could never get my mind to turn off. It was constantly cycling through all the things I hadn’t been able to complete on any given day and all the deadlines that were barreling toward me at 120 mph.

I was dreading the upcoming season. I still wanted to work with “my people,” and still wanted to be able to use my skills for what I’d been hired to do. But…I couldn’t bear the thought of the sleepless nights, the constant phone calls, the endless to-do lists. My body was already showing signs of the stress. I honestly wasn’t sure I would make it through another season without falling ill.

And then one day that May, my mother sent me a photo of a fluffy, white creature with huge, yellow eyes. A baby owl.

And that moment changed my life.

Of course, I wanted to see this owlet for myself. I’d never seen a baby owl — not even in a zoo or museum. I didn’t expect that it would happen, but the next weekend I visited my mother, I spotted the adult owl and sneaked as close as I could get to it, trying to snap a photo.

After a few moments, it flew away. And as I turned to go, I noticed something sitting on the fence nearby.

It was the baby owl.

I watched it for over an hour. I had no idea that my attention could be so completely captured in such a way. When was the last time I had paid attention to something that intensely? And simply to observe it? The owlet just sat there, staring at me. It didn’t move other than to turn its head. Somehow, that creature’s existence and proximity to me was all I needed to remain entranced.

I discovered, over the course of the next few weeks that the owlet was not alone — it had two siblings. I was already hooked by one of them. But three? Suddenly, there was little more that was important to me than tracking these three little creatures across the woods every weekend that summer.

I lived for Fridays when I would drive out to my mother’s ranch, pull out my camera, and hike through the woods until I found the owls. Then I’d sit down on a rock and remain there, watching and taking photographs for hours.

There are many memories from that summer that I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Sitting on the back end of my brother’s trailer while watching the owlets attempt to fly back and forth from the pole barn to the trees, under the watchful eyes of their father. Photographing them as they played on a pile of hay at sunset. Observing them as they sat on trees, stretching their wings. Following them through the woods as they made their way from one branch to another.

It was far more interesting to me than anything on Netflix.

What’s interesting to me is how much those moments grounded me in the present. I can still remember with such clarity what the temperature was during those moments. I remember the way the sunlight fell and how it painted the landscape around me in gold. I remember the sound of the wind in the trees and the sound of the owlets squawking.

I also became incredibly in tune with the world around me.

I would stop and listen and often be able to hear or see clues that would tell me where the owlets were. A trail of their juvenile feathers or the sound of magpies cawing. I started being able to “read the land.”

I already loved my woodland and already knew it well, but I came to know it even better that summer. I knew where certain plants grew and which deer paths made for good shortcuts through the trees. I knew where the owls liked to sit when they were eating and where they perched when they wanted to rest. I felt like the land was talking to me and I to it.

I even developed relationships with the owls. I often sat with them for hours, sometimes within 15 feet of them. I just watched them, and they watched me. Sometimes, I’d take photographs. Occasionally, I would talk to them, asking them all the questions I wished they could answer: What is your life like? What kinds of feelings do you experience? What’s it like to see through your eyes and hear through your ears? Are you as aware of your mortality as humans are?

I did come to believe that these little creatures answered me. In their own way and with answers that went far beyond the questions I was asking. Could I put that into words? No. But there’s an understanding in my heart that I believe I acquired from all those afternoons with my owls.

It’s May again, and I wonder if there are any owlets out in the woods that I haven’t yet discovered. I was blessed in 2018 to get to relive the experience, though with only one owlet that year. Last spring, the owlets didn’t survive our late-February snow storm.

I haven’t seen much of the owls this year.

Yesterday, after a day of wondering where on earth they have been hiding, I stumbled upon one of the adults when I went out into the woods for a short walk.

I was so surprised to see it and even more surprised that it didn’t fly away as I approached. I often wonder if they remember me. Can they recognize the features on my face? Do they recognize the particular rhythm of my heartbeat?

I stood there for a long time, watching it, the sun streaming into my face, my hand awkwardly lifted to try to shield my eyes.

In some ways, it felt off…like I’ve lost something I’ll never get back. Those precious summer afternoons watching my owls, at a time in my life when I needed that the most. When they taught me how to be present in a way I’ve never been able to accomplish before.

I left my job in autumn 2018 — the last time I spent with owlets. I knew I couldn’t take the stress anymore. I knew it was literally killing me.

I know those owls helped me get through that time. They taught me such an important lesson in presence, in mindfulness.

But I’ve been feeling like I can’t quite get back there since the last owlet flew away. These days, I struggle to find that sense of connectedness. That feeling of rooting into the earth and having all of my attention completely captured by whatever is before me.

The owl flew away after a little while and I watched as it swooped elegantly and effortlessly over and under the branches of the nearby trees. And then it was gone, swallowed up into the woods, the only place I know that can make me feel even a little bit here in this moment.

I wanted to follow it, like I used to do. But I didn’t. I turned around and headed home.

© Yael Wolfe 2020

More about my owl friends: