There Are No Grand Landscapes Here

What the woods taught me about paying attention

---

there aren’t any grand

landscapes here—just the small things

Nature nurtures and

those things some tend to ignore

as they walk along the Way

— from “(no grand landscapes in Fallen Oaks Woods)”

I wrote those lines in a small stretch of New England woods that has no mountain view and no dramatic overlook. It has a river, a pond, some old oaks, and a few rocks. For a long time, I half expected that to be a disappointment. It turned out to be the point.

When I go to the woods, I try to meet Nature on her own terms. I am not there to be impressed. I am there to observe the way things are, sometimes with joy and sometimes with sadness. On a silvery morning, frost etches the fallen leaves, and when the sun rises their tips ignite in maroon, gold and brown. On another day, a dull blue dragonfly rides the wind through a summer’s day. None of this would make a postcard; yet, all of it has stayed with me.

What I almost missed

I have noticed that most of what the woods offers arrives in the subtleties. A leaf shadow moves across a trunk at midday. A heron lifts off the river. A single yellow leaf holds on after the others have fallen. In the past, when I walked too fast, or too lost in my own thoughts, these things passed without a sound, and I left the woods believing nothing happened.

Plenty of people walk the same path and never see these things. I do not say that with judgment. I recognize it by myself. During my younger self, I was often watching the horizon, waiting for the bigger moment, while the real material of the day went by.

What changed when I slowed down

Over time the practice has become simple. I stop, I observe, and I try to describe exactly what I see. Writing a poem about a leaf forces me to understand what the leaf is doing. The poem is almost an excuse to remain open longer.

The surprise has been how much this steadies me. My mind is clearest when I am hiking in the woods. The trees, the rocks, the river and the pond have heard my contemplations, and I leave them there to mature. Giving my attention to something small and real has been one of the most reliable ways I know to loosen the grip of whatever I was worrying about.

I haven’t mastered any of this. I am still learning to slow down, and I am still walking the Way.

An invitation to notice

If you would like to try this yourself, here is one way to begin. On your next walk, pick a few small things you would normally pass without noticing. Do not search for beauty. Just look for what is specific. Then describe each one in a sentence, as plainly and exactly as you can. “A nice tree” does not count. “The oak’s shadow stretched across the snow like a long, thin arm” does. If you can’t describe it, look again.

Do this for a week and see what happens to the rest of your day.

A question to carry with you

Where in my life am I waiting for a grand landscape before I allow myself to be present? Whatever answer comes, I suspect the small things are already there, offering what they have, patient and ready for whoever stops to look.

Next: How one yellow leaf taught me to hold joy and sadness together.