I read recently that we have the tendency to look, but the quality of our attention is minimal. It brought my mind back to earlier this week, sitting at this same desk staring at the woods outside my window. How often do I sit here and look with attention? Do I notice the seasons, the birds, the network of spindly wooden arms? Then I began to wonder, do I know how to look? Can I see a tree? Really see it, and describe it until I know every insect in its core and every curve of its branches. I didn’t know. I still don’t, but practice can make improvements. So now I look every morning. What can I see today, that I couldn’t yesterday?

 Spring is just beginning. There are still patches of snow on the ground where the sun’s rays do not reach. The grass only has the barest hint of green leftover from summer, brittle and yellow and coarse. Leaves from the fall carpet the ground, no longer the vibrant shades of reds, yellows, and oranges, but dull. Dampness hangs in the air, thick and cloying, as the snow melts and the sun becomes warmer. Two cardinals are flitting about the bare branches of the dormant oaks. Their gaudy feathers a sharp contrast to the subdued browns and grays of their surroundings. A robin is nearby, its song piercing even through the glass window pane. My mother says that’s how you really know winter is coming to an end. Soon I will wake to a chorus of life, songbirds rejoicing in the longer, warmer days.

While I may not see everything while looking out this meager window, I do endeavor to look closer every day. The world is a large place full of small details after all. If I ever wish to look upon it with maximum attention, practice is a must.