I received a “memory rewind” from Facebook that carried me back nine years. At first, it filled me with warmth—and then a quiet wave of sadness washed over me. The photos captured such beautiful moments that they made me smile, but soon I found myself grieving how much life has changed.

The children are grown now, living lives of their own. I sit here as an empty nester, feeling the weight of a new kind of quiet. I got up and looked out at the snow-covered backyard.

That’s when I noticed a squirrel hopping across the snow. It leapt forward, stopped at a precise spot, brushed the snow aside, and dug out a nut. Then it ran up the tree, peeled it, ate it, and came back down. It repeated the same ritual at another spot—and then another. Three times, each one exact.

I couldn’t help but marvel at the quiet wisdom within this tiny creature. Beneath a four-inch blanket of snow, it knew exactly where it had buried those nuts months ago. No searching. No guessing. Three out of three isn’t luck—it’s hukam. Instinct guided by a larger order.

There it was—alone in the cold, yet fully engaged in sustaining its life. In the summer, I had seen many squirrels racing through the yard. It may have had a partner, even offspring. But today, it stood on its own.

And in that moment, I saw myself.

In a way, the squirrel and I share a similar solitude. But the similarity ends there. The squirrel must venture out into the winter cold to survive. I, on the other hand, stand inside in warmth, no matter how harsh it is outside. My pantry and refrigerator are stocked. I am sheltered, supported, and standing by the window—learning to find meaning in this new season of life.

Gurbani reminds us that nothing happens by chance. We live, move, and are sustained within Hukam—a divine order that provides what is needed, when it is needed. And maybe—like that squirrel—I have already been given what I need for this season and the ones ahead. I simply need to trust, remember, and draw from it. 

We store much, use little, and what remains is never wasted—it becomes someone else’s blessing.

What a marvel nature’s system is. The squirrel gathers more than it needs. Forgotten nuts buried beneath the earth become future trees. In hiding and retrieving its food, the squirrel aerates the soil. What passes through its body returns as nourishment. Without knowing it, the squirrel quietly serves creation.

And perhaps that is seva too—living sincerely, trusting Hukam, and allowing our very existence to quietly nourish the world around us.

Even in solitude, we are never outside the care of Waheguru.