The Art of Noticing

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the wind. Not in a poetic, Instagram caption kind of way, but really noticing it. The way it brushes against my cheek on a slow morning walk. The way it makes the trees perform, their branches bending like dancers in some silent choreography. I noticed a single yellow leaf flutter down last week, spiraling toward the ground, taking up all the time and space in the world it could need. And for the first time in a long time, I paused long enough to watch it fall.

Maybe it’s just me, but…

When did we stop noticing?

Noticing is an art form… one that’s easy to forget in the age of endless scrolling, inbox overload, and the constant hum of to-do lists. But I’m starting to believe that it’s one of the most essential skills for actually being alive, for actually living.

I don’t mean mindfulness in the sterile, overused way it’s often packaged. I mean the raw, imperfect, human kind of noticing. The way the morning light hits your coffee just right. The subtle scent of toast in the air that appears right before it starts to rain. The warmth of a stranger’s smile. The way your shoulders drop just a little when you hear your favorite song at the grocery store.

What if the secret to calm isn’t in fixing or achieving or rushing, but in simply looking around?

Noticing pulls you out of the anxious theater of your own mind and places you smack in the front row of reality. Not the big, dramatic parts of life… the engagements, the job offers, the heartbreaks…. but the little, ordinary pieces that are always unfolding quietly, asking nothing of you except presence.

And let’s be honest: being present is uncomfortable sometimes. It asks you to sit still. To observe. To slow down when everything in you is shouting, “Go faster!”

But what if the slowness is the point?

What if we miss our lives not because they aren’t full… but because we’re moving too quickly to see them?

I’ve started asking myself a new kind of question: What have I overlooked today?

It’s a surprisingly disarming question. Try it sometime. Maybe you’ll realize you walked past a blooming tree without smelling it. Maybe your partner said something kind and you nodded, distracted. Maybe your own reflection looked a little softer today… but you were too busy to notice.

The art of noticing is also the art of returning, to your body, your breath, your surroundings, your senses. It’s a quiet rebellion in a loud world. And it’s not just poetic; it’s practical.

Because when you notice what’s around you, you begin to respond rather than react. You take a beat before spiraling. You remember that the world is wider than your worries. You realize the ground beneath you is still solid. The sky is still blue. The wind is still moving the leaves, whether you watch it or not.

And when you do watch it- something changes.

You start seeing the people around you more clearly. You notice who needs a smile. Who might need your patience. You even notice your own needs. The way your body asks for rest, or movement, or water. The way your soul lights up at the smell of baking bread or the sound of a friend’s laugh.

One day at the airport, while waiting for my flight, I looked up from my phone and noticed something eerie: every single person around me, rows of travelers, strangers with all their own stories, were all looking down. Not one person was making eye contact. No conversation, no shared moments. Just the quiet, desperate hum of digital escape. I caught myself doing it too. And it made me wonder… What are we all so afraid we’ll see if we look up?

Maybe it’s not that there’s nothing to notice, but that we’ve forgotten how to notice.

I recently drove to a scenic lookout, it was a beautiful place that overlooked the water for miles. You know, one of those views that people post with dramatic captions like “Heaven on earth.” But when I got there, what I kept staring at wasn’t the view at all. It was the wildflowers growing in the cracks of the rocks beneath my feet. A butterfly that danced between them. I stood there thinking… Wasn’t this the kind of beauty that already existed in my own backyard?

Sometimes we chase beauty all over the world, only to find it was quietly waiting for us back home.

And honestly? Maybe the world’s not as dull or heavy as it seems.
Maybe you’re just not romanticizing it enough.

Try this: imagine your life is a movie. Wouldn’t the rain feel dramatic, not annoying? Wouldn’t your morning coffee feel sacred, not routine? Wouldn’t the way the breeze lifts your hair feel like magic, not just like weather?

Maybe it’s not the world that’s cold, maybe it’s just the way you’re looking at it.

Before I moved to Montana in 2022, I thought very little of Seattle. I found it to be too loud, too unhappy, and too overcast gray. But now, being back since 2024, I see it completely differently. The same streets that once felt chaotic now feel charming. The skyline I used to tune out now looks like a painting. I had to leave to realize it wasn’t the city that was the problem, it was my view. I changed. And because of that, so did everything else.

Maybe the peace we’re searching for isn’t out there in some perfect place or version of ourselves.
Maybe it’s already all around us, rustling in the trees, glittering in a puddle, waiting in the pause between two sentences.

So I guess I’m wondering:

Have we become so focused on becoming that we’ve forgotten how to be?

The art of noticing isn’t about making your life perfect. It’s about realizing it already holds more than you think—if you’re willing to look closely.

And if you’re reading this right now, maybe that’s your invitation to pause. Just for a moment.

Breathe. Listen. Look around.

The breeze is dancing with the leaves again.
Did you notice?