There are many ways to remember a place.

You can take photographs. Buy the postcard. Bring home the sticker. Write down where you went and what you saw.

Or you can begin to collect the place while you are still inside it.

That’s what I found myself doing in Yellowstone.

I arrived with a battered old book I’d turned into a travel journal, a tiny watercolor palette, a little notebook for field notes, a vintage tobacco tin, a pen, and a canvas bag that said:

I notice because I make.
I make because I notice.

Which, it turns out, was exactly the right equipment.

Not because I intended to make beautiful pages while sitting beside geysers.

I didn’t.

I wanted something much simpler.

I wanted to pay attention.

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?