I didn’t really want to go for a walk.

It was one of those properly wet days — the kind where the rain doesn’t fall neatly, but sideways, soaking your coat before you’ve even decided whether you’re annoyed or resigned. The sky was heavy, the paths muddy, and the sofa was doing an excellent job of calling my name.

But I went anyway.

There’s a walk I do fairly often, across open fields, and if I’m honest part of the reason I keep going back is the quiet hope that I might see the deer. Sometimes I do. Often I don’t. It’s never guaranteed — which is part of the point.

This time, as the rain came down and my hood was pulled firmly over my head, I saw them. A whole herd, suddenly appearing, running across the field and disappearing into the trees as quickly as they’d arrived. A brief, breath-catching moment of wildness and grace.

A moment of magic.

Even in the rain.

What struck me wasn’t just the beauty of it — though it was beautiful — but the simplicity of how it happened. I didn’t see the deer because I’d planned well, or timed things perfectly, or tried harder than usual. I saw them because I showed up.

And that feels like such a useful thing to remember.

So often we think that meaningful moments — insight, calm, joy, clarity — are something we have to earn. That if we practise hard enough, long enough, consistently enough, something special will eventually be handed over as a reward.

But that isn’t really how it works.

Practice doesn’t guarantee magic. It doesn’t promise breakthroughs or moments that feel cinematic or profound. What it does do — quietly, steadily — is make us available.

Available to notice. Available to receive. Available to be surprised.

Most days, yoga looks very ordinary. It’s rolling out the mat when you’d rather stay in bed. It’s moving gently when you wish you felt stronger. It’s breathing when the mind is noisy and distracted. It’s showing up without inspiration, without expectation, without certainty that anything special will happen at all.

And often, nothing much does.

But every now and then — without warning — something aligns. The breath and the movement meet. The body softens. The mind settles. Or a herd of deer runs across a rain-soaked field.

These moments don’t arrive because we forced them. They arrive because we were there.

I think this is one of the quiet lessons of practice — whether it’s yoga, meditation, walking, writing, or simply paying attention to your own life. We don’t practise to manufacture magic. We practise to create the conditions where magic might happen.

And just as importantly, where we can recognise it when it does.

On that walk, the rain didn’t stop. The ground was still wet. My socks were damp by the time I got home. Nothing about the day suddenly became perfect.

But for a few seconds, everything felt alive and vivid and enough.

And that was because I went on the walk I didn’t want to go on.

This time of year can feel a bit like that too. Energy wobbles. Motivation comes and goes. The initial enthusiasm of January softens into something more realistic — sometimes more resistant.

This is usually the moment people decide they’ve failed.

But maybe it’s actually the moment when practice really begins.

Not the shiny, hopeful beginning — but the quieter one. The one where we keep showing up, even when it’s raining. Especially when it’s raining.

Because we don’t know what we might see.

And that, to me, is reason enough to keep going.