Slow Advent: 25 Small Moments Instead of a To-Do List
Every late November, early December, I make lists, so many lists! There’s the list of gifts to buy, the Christmas card list, which baked goodies to make, a list of decorations to put up or buy, etc., etc., etc. The problem with lists like this is that I feel like I’m failing before I even get started.
Somewhere along the way, Advent has become another productivity challenge. We’ve turned a season of waiting and wonder into a sprint toward an arbitrary finish line, all while we guilt ourselves for not doing enough, not making enough magic, not being enough. We miss the quiet waiting.
But what if Advent isn’t about doing more? What if it’s about noticing more?
So in the spirit of quiet rebellion against the pressures of the holidays, I’m ditching the to-do list for a different kind of list: I’m keeping a list of small moments. Not moments I have to create, choreograph, or photograph. Just moments I want to notice. Moments that are already here, waiting for me to slow down enough to see them.
25 Small Moments for a Slower Advent
In the kitchen:
The smell of bread baking on a cold morning..
Hands in warm, soapy water while washing dishes while listening to quiet Christmas music.
Steam rising from morning tea, hands wrapped around the warmth.
The weight of a wooden spoon, slowing stirring oatmeal.
In nature:
First frost on fallen leaves, turning the ordinary into something crystalline.
Winter birds at the feeder, chatty chickadees and vibrant cardinals.
The light in late afternoon that only December brings.
Bare tree branches against a gray sky.
The crunch of fallen leaves under boots during an evening walk to the mailbox.
With your hands:
A few quiet stitches on a quilt before bed, needle pulling thread in a comforting rhythm.
Sketching bare branches in a nature journal, pen moving slowly across the page.
The slip of plant-dyed fabric through your fingers, colors you coaxed from roots and leaves.
Kneading bread dough, the push and fold that can’t be hurried.
Wrapping a bar of handmade soap, knowing someone will unwrap and enjoy.
In stillness:
Five minutes watching the fire, or a single candle flame.
The house quiet before anyone else wakes, when the day still belongs to you.
Standing at the window watching the light of an early December morningl.
The moment right after you blow out the candles at night, when the smoke rises in the dark.
Sitting with your coffee, no phone, no agenda, just sitting.
In ritual:
Lighting the same candle each evening, a small way to mark the end of the day.
Your hands on bread dough every Tuesday morning, the weekly rhythm of something slow.
The first sip of something warm when you come in from the cold.
Reading by low light (or even candlelight) instead of scrolling by blue light.
The exhale at the end of the day when you realize you have enough.
The Gift of Noticing
Here’s what I’m learning: these moments don’t require a calendar or a checklist. They’re not Instagram-worthy. They don’t prove I’m doing Advent “right.” They’re just life, slowed down enough to feel it.
I won’t experience all twenty-five because honestly there will be days when I am too hurried or distracted to slow down and notice and that’s okay. This isn’t another thing to achieve, it’s an effort to be present in the moment.
But on the days when I do slow down, when I pause at the window to glimpse a bird, or notice the feel of dough as I’m kneading it, or I sit too enjoy my cup of tea those moments become the season itself. Not the backdrop to the real holiday, but the holiday itself.
That’s the real gift of Advent. Not what we make or buy or accomplish, but what we notice. What we allow ourselves to receive.
The season is already here. The moments are already waiting.
All we have to do is slow down enough to see them.
What small moments are you noticing this December? I’d love to hear what slowness looks like in your corner of the world.
