Olives, Mushrooms, and the Art of Noticing
I often get accused of being overly enthusiastic about the mundane. "Accused" is the right word because, for some reason, a spontaneous exclamation of "LOOK AT THAT TREE!" is met with the same energy as if i'd just announced I was reorganising my sock drawer. People are startled, confused, maybe a little exasperated. They don't share my enthusiasm or understand my excitement.
But have you seen that tree? It’s a really good tree. The shape, the way it bends ever so slightly to the right as if caught mid-dance. The way its branches stretch out like it's perpetually shrugging. Or the sky—have you seen the sky tonight? No, but have you really seen it? It’s particularly vast this evening. The stars—are they brighter than usual? They must be. And that mushroom—hang on, should I touch it? Oh... I already did. Now my fingers feel weird. But LOOK at the colours!
I know this can be frustrating for some people. The constant pointing out of the obvious. The relentless enthusiasm for things they have deemed too ordinary to deserve a second glance. But the thing is, the joy never fades for me. I’ve seen blue tits countless times, but today, this one seems especially blue. That rock? It’s definitely interesting. It has a history, a journey. It has been shaped by forces older than any of us, and now it’s just sitting there, waiting to be appreciated.
I was reading Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations again (as one does), and the passage that jumped out at me was 4.48.2. He talks about passing through time in harmony with nature, of leaving this world gracefully, like a ripened olive dropping from a tree—grateful for the earth that nourished it. There’s something comforting in that. In just being here, in paying attention.
Because isn’t that the trick? To notice things? To actually see the world you’re moving through instead of letting it blur past in the rush of everything else? Maybe this is what Marcus meant by harmony with nature—letting yourself be in sync with the small wonders that are so easy to overlook.
So no, I won’t stop. I won’t stop getting excited about a cool bird or a strangely shaped cloud or a particularly excellent piece of lichen. I will continue to make my companions stop mid-conversation to look at the moon. I will always try to get someone—anyone—to appreciate an interesting lizard. (That’s one for the Kevin and Perry fans.)
And one day, when I’m done here, I hope I drop gracefully—like a well-ripened olive—content, grateful, and still marvelling at how astonishingly blue a blue tit can be (even though they are mostly yellow).