The other day, I found myself out in the woods, seeking something simple and essential—a chance to unplug. It was around 3 p.m. and even though the cold wasn’t biting as it has been in past years, the nip in the air was enough to make me notice. I was on my own property, wandering with no agenda other than to clear my head and refresh. It’s not a new practice for me, this urge to get outside and reset in nature that is. Yet each time I do it, it feels like I’m relearning the importance of being still, of simply “being.”
Most of my time, when I’m not in front of a screen, is spent planning—reflecting on what’s next, what needs to be done. There’s always a list, either typed or written, reminding me of tasks that need attention. Weekdays, weekends, they each have their unique tasks: tidying up around the house, building something new, reflecting on future, considering my team. The list is endless, always begging for attention.
But as I wandered through the forest, the sheer silence and noise of it all struck me. The only sounds were the wind rattling through towering pine trees overlooking a recently cut cornfield. Each step on the dry leaves felt amplified—almost deafening—though, in reality, it was likely only loud in the absence of anything else. It’s strange how nature has a way of amplifying what’s around you, making you hyper-aware, grounding you in the moment.
I reached a small hill with a view over the cornfields and found a spot to settle. Brushing away the leaves, I nestled against a tree, tall pines behind me and bare hardwoods stretching out before me. The forest around me creaked and groaned, as if the trees were alive, settling and shifting in the breeze. The sounds alternated between silence and sharp snaps and crackles—a stark reminder of how vibrant and alive nature is, even when it appears still.
There’s something ancient about this reset in nature, this act of centering oneself. Humans have been drawn to it for thousands of years. The more I read about the idea of a "reset," the more I see how integral nature is to that process. Just sitting there, letting my mind wander, was enough. Sometimes I’d think about what was next on my list, sometimes I’d let my thoughts drift aimlessly.
At one point, a rustling sound pulled me from my daze. I looked around, trying to place it, only to realize it was a couple of squirrels frolicking around, gathering corn kernels scattered from the recent harvest. They darted up and down trees, leaves crunching underfoot, loud enough to sound like much larger animals. They didn’t notice me, and one came within three feet of where I sat. For a second, we locked eyes, and it did a little “shimmy,” like a football player faking a move, before darting away. Another peeked around the tree, cocked its head, watching me with one eye, as if trying to figure out who or what I was.
Eventually, the squirrels moved on, and as the sun began to set, I felt a shiver. Still, I stayed, wanting to watch the sun sink through the trees. As dusk settled, I heard a quiet rustling off to my right. Thinking it was more squirrels, I was surprised to see two shadows moving in the trees. I lifted my binoculars and realized it was a pair of deer. They moved with that careful, deliberate grace, unaware of me, and eventually wandered off into the woods, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.
After a while, the cold started to set in, so I stood, shook off the chill, and made my way back to my truck. And as I walked, I thought about what those hours had given me—just the simple act of being still, of doing nothing but watching the sunset and listening to the world around me. It had been worth it.
Sometimes we need to unplug, to step away from the lists and demands and simply be still. That stillness has a way of grounding us, giving us clarity and perspective. For me, it’s a reminder of what’s truly important—not that the work and tasks don’t matter, but that there’s a balance to strike. Nature has a way of putting things into perspective, reminding me of the value of timing and the reasons behind why we do what we do. It’s in those quiet moments that I find my own reasons, refreshed and ready to return.
Mark J Modzeleski, CFS, CLTC, AIF
President, Legacy Wealth Advisors of NY