From my house I only have to walk a few hundred yards before
I am surrounded by fields and trees, with hardly a house in sight. For the past
few evenings I have really enjoyed soaking in those colours and that light. As
I walk the dogs, I try to take in everything. Not only the scenery, but the
birdsong as well. It is gentler and calmer than the calls of many Australian
birds, far less frantic.
We cross paths with the regular dogs and their humans. We
stop and chat, the dogs stop and sniff each other. Everyone comments on the
weather. Everyone seems brighter,
happier than they did last month. Their shoulders have lifted. They’re standing
taller.
Every few days I see someone. I don’t know them, I don’t even know their name, but they are
always on their phone, constantly scrolling.
The dogs they walk lead the way, but the owner never even glances at
them, never looks up, not even once.
I can’t help but feel they are missing so much. There is so much beauty around them waiting
to be seen. You don’t even have to look for it.
It’s right there, within and without.
And that is what this time of year does best. It nudges you. The season change
doesn’t shout for your attention. It simply is, and it softly asks you to
notice. A gentle whisper rather than a wild gesture. The light falls in a
certain way, the air sharpens, and the world feels a little more vivid. You
look up. You breathe in. You remember where you are, and who you are.
Sometimes, even glimpses of why you are.
The dogs certainly know. They pause at every scent, every
rustle, every tiny shift in the bushes. They stop and stare across the fields
at the slight movement of some small animal I can’t see. They remind me that
attention is something you allow, not force. You need to open yourself, your mind. When I follow
their example, I sense so much more. All five senses working overtime, even on
the quietest evening.
So I keep walking. I keep noticing. And each time I step
outside, I try to make space for the simple things that are so easy to miss.
The changing light. The softened birdsong. The lifted shoulders of strangers.
The easy rhythm of the dogs as they pad along the path.
You can live in the world with your nose in the phone. You’re
still outdoors, getting some fresh air. But if you pay attention, if you look
up even once, and open yourself to see, you might just feel the world turning.
And often, that is more than enough.
