It was drizzling this evening when I walked the dog. After a few minutes of walking, I became very aware of the mist settling on my face. I became aware of how my hair felt a little heavier, but didn’t feel wet. How my boots made that sound that shoes do as they lift off a wet pavement.
I wondered what else I might notice, if I chose to.
The scattered light from headlamps.
The streams running in the gutter.
The beads of water in my brows.
I decided to feel the cold that was managing to get past my Barbour jacket and cardigan. The feeling of the collar on my neck. The tension I was holding in my shoulders (and my back, and my hands).
Some of those things weren’t nice, but I felt glad that I could notice them; that I could pay attention to them. I decided that when I got home I’d notice the warmth, and the lack of cool collar on my neck.
Once I’d got home and got warm, I pulled a few cherry tomatoes out of the fridge and grabbed the salt cellar. I noticed the variation in color of the tomatoes. The pattern of the marble on the cellar.
I decided that I’d write about it (hello), so I sat down and paid attention to how the seat felt underneath me, how the mouse felt in my hand, and how it felt to punch the keys on my keyboard.
We experience so much, and pay attention to so little.
Paying attention to things just makes life richer, I think. Really paying attention to everything—every little thing—occasionally is just a profound experience. How much, we can feel, if we choose to.
Not much more to it than that. Just a little note to me (and to you, if you need it) to pay attention to things more often. To be thankful for the warmth, for the salt and for the tools to express myself.