Most winter mornings begin the same way in our house. The coffee drips and fills the house with smells. Someone is calling for help finding a missing glove, a missing iPad, a missing shoe. Plans are already forming for the day before I’ve had a chance to take a full breath. Especially as we finish our time in this snowy place.

Outside, it’s another story.

When I pause long enough to look out the window or step onto the porch, everything feels held. The trees stand bare and patient. The ground looks unfinished, as if it’s waiting. Even the sounds feel farther away. Winter isn’t empty out there. It’s simply quieter.

This is where my winter journaling practice lives.

I used to think nature journaling needed space. Long walks. Big blocks of time. A sense of calm before I ever opened my notebook. Winter taught me otherwise. Winter asked me to work smaller. To notice what was already within reach.

Most days, my journal comes out for only a few minutes. I don’t hike anywhere special. I don’t wait for perfect weather. I sit by the window or stand just outside the door, notebook tucked under one arm, pencil already dull from use.

Some days I sketch a branch, its shape stark against the sky. Other days it’s just a shadow on snow, or the way the light settles across the yard in the afternoon. Often, the page holds more white space than marks. That feels right in winter.

I’ve noticed that winter doesn’t offer much all at once. It gives small things instead. A line of footprints. A quiet bird call. The way cold air slows my breath without asking permission. Recording these moments doesn’t feel like productivity. It feels like listening.

When my kids join me, their pages look different. There are bigger marks. More questions. Sometimes frustration. Sometimes laughter. Winter journaling with children isn’t about stillness all the time. It’s about helping them see that even quiet seasons have something to say.

What I love most about winter journaling is how little it asks of me. I don’t need to make something beautiful. I don’t need to finish a page. I don’t even need to understand what I’m noticing right away. The act of looking is enough. Being in a new place with snow makes this a whole new adventure, but it is steady and about the noticing.

When the house fills back up with noise and movement, I carry a bit of that outside quiet with me. Not as calm, exactly. More like steadiness.

Winter doesn’t need to be big to be meaningful.
It just needs to be noticed.