The Things We Notice Along the Way

There is something lovely about the little things we notice when we aren't rushing.

A squirrel balancing along a branch as though it were a tightrope.

Clouds drifting slowly across the sky after weeks of clear summer weather.

A herd of cows following me across a field when I was simply trying to find some elderberries.

None of these moments were planned. They weren't on my to-do list. And yet they are some of the things I will remember from this week.

Perhaps that's one of the gifts of slowing down ~ we become more available to what is happening around us.

Looking up

I've been doing a little more cloud watching recently.

We haven't seen many clouds for a few weeks, so when they finally appeared, I found myself looking up and watching them change shape and drift across the sky.

Cloud watching is such a simple thing to do, but I think we've become rather good at walking past the sky without really seeing it.

How often do we look down at the path, across at what's ahead, or at our phones, without noticing what's happening above our heads?

There is no particular purpose to cloud watching. You don't need to achieve anything. You simply look.

And perhaps that's the point.

The things we don't notice about ourselves

After one of my yoga classes recently, a couple of the yogis were chatting about the sound of my voice and how relaxed it makes them feel.

My voice is something I have consciously worked on over the years. As part of my initial EcoNidra training, we had specific coaching around voicing, learning how to use our voices to support relaxation and create a sense of safety and calm.

So it was lovely to hear that this is something people notice and feel during my classes too.

It also reminded me that sometimes we don't see the effect of the things we do.

Something that has become familiar to us can be experienced very differently by someone else.

Perhaps you have something like that in your own life ~ a quality, skill or small kindness that you don't particularly notice because it has simply become part of who you are.

Sometimes we need somebody else to point it out.

Bimbling, trudging and finding our own way

Last week's Sunday Letter was all about bimbling ~ that wonderfully British word for wandering along slowly without any particular urgency.

Since then, people have been telling me about their own versions of it.

One person told me that they bimble.

Another told me that they don't bimble at all ~ they trudge!

I love this.

It doesn't really matter what we call it. What matters is that we each have our own way of moving through the landscape.

Perhaps your walk is a bimble.

Perhaps it's a wander, a ramble, a potter or a trudge.

Maybe sometimes it is all of them.

The important thing is that you are there to notice what is around you.

The elderberry adventure

This week I headed out with my foraging basket to collect some elderberries.

I knew where there were some lovely bushes, so I had visions of coming home with a basket full of berries ready to make a winter cordial.

The adventure started with the cows.

They decided to follow me across the field.

Not aggressively, but close enough to make me feel that perhaps I should keep moving. There is something slightly unnerving about being followed by a herd of cows!

When I eventually reached the elderberries, I discovered that nature had other plans.

The thistles and brambles had grown so tall that I couldn't actually get close enough to the bushes without being scratched and stung.

I was wearing shorts.

In hindsight, this was not my finest foraging decision.

I came home with scratches up my legs, no elderberries whatsoever, and one very important lesson:

Long trousers. Long sleeves. Always.

And the only thing I actually brought home in my foraging basket that day?

A bag of sugar from the Co-op.

Sometimes nature has a sense of humour.

When things don't go according to plan

I had set out with a very clear intention ~ collect elderberries and make something for winter.

Instead, I got a slightly unnerving encounter with some cows, a battle with brambles and thistles, scratches on my legs and a bag of sugar.

And actually, I'm quite happy with that.

Because the adventure itself became the thing worth remembering.

Perhaps we sometimes put too much emphasis on getting where we intended to go.

We want the berries.

We want to complete the walk.

We want to tick something off the list.

We want the day to go according to plan.

But nature doesn't work like that.

The squirrel doesn't appear because we've scheduled five minutes of nature connection.

The clouds don't arrange themselves into something beautiful because we're ready to photograph them.

And the elderberries certainly don't promise to be accessible just because we've brought our basket.

Sometimes the best moments are the ones that weren't part of the plan.

Just noticing

This is something I come back to again and again in my own work.

Just noticing.

Noticing the squirrel.

Noticing the clouds.

Noticing the cows.

Noticing the sound of a voice.

Noticing how your feet feel on the ground.

Noticing the breeze on your skin.

Noticing that you have stopped rushing.

We don't always need to turn these moments into mindfulness practices or give them a deeper meaning.

Sometimes noticing is enough.

It brings us into the present moment.

It gives our minds somewhere else to rest.

And it reminds us that there is always more happening around us than we might see when we're busy trying to get somewhere.

So the next time you're out walking, perhaps don't worry about whether you're bimbling, trudging, wandering or rambling.

Just look around.

Look up.

Listen.

Notice.

You never know what might be waiting for you along the way.

Even if it is only a herd of cows and a bag of sugar.

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