The Practice Travels With You
This morning, I reached into the pocket of my coat and found a tiny pinecone.
I'd picked it up on a walk a couple of days ago, apparently deciding it was worth bringing home. Then I'd forgotten all about it. There it was, nestled in the corner of my pocket, a little souvenir of an ordinary afternoon.
I turned it over in my hand, admiring its perfect little scales, and wondered what had caught my attention about this particular pinecone. There must have been dozens scattered along the path. Why this one?
I don't remember.
But I do remember the walk. The bright sunshine, the cool air, the sound of leaves underfoot, the particular pleasure of being outside with nowhere I urgently needed to be.
What We Choose to Keep
I have a fondness for things other people might throw away.
Old photographs of people I never knew. Handwritten grocery lists. Pages torn from forgotten books. Ticket stubs, receipts, faded postcards, scraps of paper with someone else's handwriting.
Collecting Your Life
For a long time, I’ve been interested in noticing.
The small things. The ordinary things. The things we walk past every day because we think we already know them.
The light moving across the kitchen table. A sentence overheard in a coffee shop. The particular blue of the evening sky. A grocery list tucked into a pocket. A flower growing through a crack in the sidewalk. The way someone you love always tells the same story.
I’ve written often about paying attention to these things.
But lately, I’ve become interested in what happens next.
What do we do with what we notice?