stop.

Over the weekend, I had the opportunity to catch up with my dear friend Asha. It had been a minute, and she’d just returned home from some travels, accompanied by her trusty sketchbook. Over Zoom, she showed me some of the images she’d made as she’d wandered through charming neighbourhoods, so different from her own.

Sketching is a relatively new avocation for Asha, and at one point, as she shared a detailed drawing of an ornate building that she’d made en plein air — just sitting on the sidewalk, watching folks walk by as she painted. I asked her what it felt like for her in the moment.

“I’m so glad you asked me that,” she said. “It was … amazing. I probably sat there for about an hour, and even though what I sketched isn’t a perfect representation of the building, simply the process of sitting there for that long … examining the building, and watching how one part of the building is in relation with other parts of the building … I’m not sure how to explain it, but it felt like I was creating a relationship with this structure. So much so, that the next day when I walked past, I felt this emotion rise inside of me. It was like, I know you.”

As she spoke, I was somewhat surprised at how familiar what she was describing was. And so yesterday, I grabbed my camera for the first time in a while, went outside, and took some photos of the branch you see above that had fallen in our garden in the previous evening’s storms … for no other reason than to photograph it. I held it aloft with my left hand, with my camera in my right — moving it into different light conditions, focusing on one blossom, and then another — just shooting, for about ten minutes. And I remembered: this is how I felt years ago, during a time of my life when I was shooting every single day. There’s something that happens when you take the time to stop and look. It’s so grounding. And in ways that are difficult to explain, it’s connecting — a reintroduction of yourself with your surroundings.

A week from today, I’ll be flying to the beautiful Modern Elder Academy to lead a Radiant Rebellion workshop (with some Lightmaker’s Manifesto and In Defense of Dabbling thrown in, for good measure). As I spend this week putting the final touches on the workshop agenda, I’ve been thinking that I’m going to try, as much as possible, to “attend” my workshop, as well as lead it. Instead of just facilitating the exercises, I’m going to try to do the reflections and journal prompts myself, as we ease into winding down this year. In fact, I think I’ll even take my camera with me, so that I can stop and look every day.

It’s time to get back to that practice, I think.

And so, my wish for all of us this coming week: may we remind ourselves of the words of poet Mary Oliver: