Waiting to Be Noticed.

The season has now most certainly turned. The days feel longer, the air is crisp and dry, and for the past few days we have had clear blue skies. It is that time of year when the light feels beautiful. The colours are bright and clean, and I am reminded of the British jigsaw puzzles and calendars I saw in the 70s. As a child growing up in Australia, those images always looked wrong, as if they had been processed badly. It was only when I moved here as an adult that I realised those colours, those more primary greens and blues, were completely accurate. I had grown up with a palette shaped by Australian trees, red dirt and harsh sunlight.

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.