Like a Fox in the Snow

When foxes hunt in the winter, they leap and dive face first into the snow. Before this, they’re still. Quiet. Focusing in on sounds happening just below the surface. They can’t see their prey. But I like to think they can feel them. And maybe they even visualize the mice, traveling without leaving footprints, beneath the snow.

When they jump, they choose their spot precisely. Timing the landing with when they think the mouse will be exactly where they expect. Most of the time, the fox comes up empty. They miss their prey by inches or maybe miles. But it doesn’t deter the fox. They jump again and again, confident that eventually they will succeed.

Eventually their timing will be just right. Instead of only a face full of snow, they’ll resurface with their goal accomplished. Lunch in their jaws. Satisfaction from their successful attempt. I wonder if the fox ever thinks about how many times he fails before it works out. Somehow I don’t think so. Somehow I think he only focuses on the attempt in front of him. He doesn’t worry about what’s already behind.

I think we can learn a lot from foxes jumping in the snow. The process starts quiet and still, preparing for a moment. Then there’s a small rustling sound, a tiny itch that says maybe the moment is now. And then it’s a leap of faith, the chance of success enough encouragement to just go. Worry of failure never calculated.

So often we plan and prepare. We research and dream about what could be. We might walk up to the edge and peak over. Aware of what it would take for us to leap. We might even visualize how we’d actually do it. Then, when the itch comes, the one urging us forward, we ignore it. We let the chance of failure keep us rooted firmly in place.

We’d rather talk about what could’ve been than actually know. So often we admire the wings we’ve built without ever testing out how well they fly.

But if we watch the fox? The fox always jumps, unconcerned about how many attempts it will take before he succeeds. One leap, then two. Then again and again. He’ll jump as many times as necessary. Until he no longer comes up empty. Because one more jump might be the one that works out. And for the fox, might be is enough.

You can only prepare so much. The research phase, your fact-finding missions can only last for so long. They help you build up a little momentum, a little bit of confidence. But if you hesitate when you feel the itch telling you the timing might be right? Your momentum slows. If you keep hesitating every time you feel the itch, your momentum stops all together.

And then, maybe you’ll never jump. Maybe you’ll never take the leap to find out what could happen if you simply tried. Or what could come next if you happened to succeed. Fear of failure only opening doors to what ifs and missed opportunities. A perfect view of what’s just in front of you without ever seeing what’s a few miles beyond the bend.

I’ve been drinking coffee out of my fox mug most mornings lately. I’ve wanted the reminder to have confidence. Not confidence that everything I try will be successful. But confidence that some things might work out, and I won’t know without going for it. The fox jumps anyway, even though there’s better odds on failure. Because the chance of success is enough.