When we first started spending time at the cabin, I thought what we’d find here was quiet. And yes, there’s quiet—no traffic, no constant notifications, no rush of people around us. But what the cabin really gave us wasn’t just silence. It was presence.
Out here, life unfolds differently. The pace isn’t dictated by the clock or the calendar, but by the rhythm of the woods. Sunlight streaming through the trees. The sound of wind tugging at the leaves. The way our two dogs, Inky and Callie, race around the yard as if each morning is brand new. Watching them reminds us that joy can be simple, immediate, right here.
Peace at the cabin doesn’t mean we sit still all day. There’s always work to be done—chopping wood, trimming back apple trees, keeping an eye on the pond. But even those tasks feel different here. They’re not interruptions, they’re part of the flow. There’s something grounding about stacking logs or sweeping the porch. Small, ordinary tasks become meditations.
And then there are the pauses. Sitting with coffee on the porch, listening to the dogs explore. Letting conversations wander with no agenda. Sometimes saying nothing at all and simply being together. Presence, I’ve learned, is often about choosing not to fill every space with sound or activity.
In the city, it’s easy to forget how restorative simple awareness can be. We’re trained to multitask, to chase what’s next. But at the cabin, the present moment insists on itself. You can’t ignore the way the sun warms your face, or how the pond ripples when a frog leaps in. Here, the world whispers, “slow down,” and for once, we listen.
Miles notices it too. He’ll wander out later in the morning, often with a sketchbook in hand, capturing the way the light bends around the trees. The cabin gives him space to be creative without pressure. To see the world not as background noise, but as inspiration.
Even the dogs have taught us something about presence. They don’t plan or overthink—they greet each moment as it arrives. A squirrel darts by, and it’s the most exciting part of the day. A nap in the sun, and all is right in their world. It’s a lesson we carry back with us: life doesn’t have to be complicated to be full.
We’ve tried to bring some of that cabin peace into our city life. Not perfectly, not every day. But enough to notice the difference. A slower morning coffee. A walk without headphones. Leaving the phone inside while we sit together in the yard. It’s not about copying the cabin exactly—it’s about remembering that presence is possible anywhere, if you choose it.
The biggest lesson the cabin has taught us is that peace isn’t something you find “out there.” It’s not locked away in a weekend getaway or a distant retreat. It’s in the way you show up to your own life—aware, grateful, unhurried.
And when we head back to the cabin again, that lesson meets us at the door. It’s in the smell of the woodstove, the sight of the pond, the excited wagging of tails. A reminder that presence isn’t rare or complicated. It’s here, waiting, if we’re willing to see it.