Notice

To notice is the first act of creativity

There is a tree in a hedgerow along the M40 that has long since surrendered to death. Skeletal limbs stretch skyward, its bark pale and smooth like bone. It stands just before the north bound junction of the M42, marking the gateway of my journey between the adult I have become and the child I once was.

It is almost 30 years since I first noticed it, driving back to my childhood home from Winchester, where my first job and new life awaited.

Stark and beautiful, carved by the artistry of nature, seen for only seconds before it slipped away in the rear view mirror. Each time I return, I search for it again, my eyes instinctively drawn to its familiar shape, and my longing to capture it in more than just my memory resurfaces.

I wonder, does anyone else who drives this road notice it? Or is it lost in the blur of steel gantries and asphalt, eclipsed by the ceaseless rush of traffic.

Noticing is the first brushstroke on the canvas of our minds, a deliberate act of connection between ourselves and the world around us, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary, the fleeting into the eternal.

Every moment, our minds process a staggering amount of information. Sight transforms light into images. Hearing decodes vibrations into sound, while touch relays pressure, temperature, and pain. We unconsciously sense our body’s movements and internal signals, hunger, heartbeat, breath.

Only a tiny fraction touches our consciousness. The mind, like an artist with a blank canvas, chooses its focus from the overwhelming flood of sensory input. Each moment noticed finds its way through the noise, pressing itself into the quiet corners of our hearts, each becomes a potential spark for creation, a fragment waiting to be shaped into something lasting.

I drive, again on this journey I have taken countless times before. Far above, a diagonal line of parachutes drifts gently toward the horizon, suspended above the earth. Briefly, I wonder what it feels like to hang there, weightless, seeing the world laid out in miniature below. Do they notice my tiny white car amidst the flow of traffic? Do they notice the tiny flame of my life passing beneath, as I notice their colourful sails painted against the sky?

Mum and I take Poppy for a walk at Mercia Park. Around the edges of this sprawling logistics hub lies a carefully curated wildness, a borderland where nature and industry meet. On one side, trees, fields, and hedgerows whisper of true countryside. On the other, wild grasses sway in the breeze, sculpted wildlife havens sit in stillness, and stretches of water glint under the sky. The giant buildings, grey fading to white, loom above it all, blending uneasily into the landscape, as if trying to soften their imposition.

I long to escape into the fields, to follow the footpaths that thread away from this manufactured order, but Mum says no, this is the way. A buzzard circles high above in the stratosphere. Charms of finches flit between the trees, their chirruping calls rising and falling as they take flight, settle, and take flight again, restless and free.

Swallows appear, darting from nowhere. They skim low across the water, dipping their beaks as they drink on the wing, delicate ripples trailing in their wake. A dance, choreographed by instinct and grace. I watch, wishing I could capture not just their movement but the feeling, translate it into a line of music, a brushstroke, something that holds more than just this fleeting moment.

We walk on. Ahead, the swallows now wheel and dive along the edge of the nearest building. In the bright sunlight, their silhouettes sharp against grey façade. For a moment, it feels as if they are playing with their shadow selves, mirrored dancers moving in perfect unity, partners in an endless skyward ballet.

Another day, another journey. More motorways and A-roads that blur into one another, more looming warehouses casting shadows over the landscape. More moments of wonder. I arrive at a vast modern distribution centre for a team meeting. This building too, fades from grey to white, surrounded by asphalt car parks, loading bays, and concrete curbs. Hardy shrubs and strategically planted trees create pockets of greenery amidst the grey expanse. A flicker of movement catches my eye, not a rat, as I first assume, but a rabbit, small and unexpected in this sea of concrete. It hops across the asphalt and vanishes into the bushes, leaving behind not just a sense of wonder in its wake, but a spark, a moment that will surface later, perhaps in a story or sketch, transformed by imagination into something more enduring.

Later, I drive through Swindon’s labyrinthine suburban sprawl to visit

Lydia Saward

. Along the roadside, another flash of movement, this time, not a cat, as I first assume, but a fox. It steps lightly, each movement precise, as if aware of being watched, it pauses, its amber eyes glinting in the fading light.

On the way home, there is murder in the air. The trees arch overhead, their branches stretching in jagged shapes against the darkening sky. A telegraph wire above is crowded with crows, hundreds of them gathered in raucous assembly. More swoop in, their wings cutting through the half-light. In seconds, I’m passed them, the sight disappearing behind me. I wish I could stop, turn around, and capture the moment, to hold onto the image longer than this transient glimpse allows.

I sit on a plane, my legs ache, stiff from hours wedged into the cramped space. Ankles swollen, mind and body heavy with exhaustion from the restless night before curled awkwardly on unforgiving airport seats. The inconvenient layout of the plane splits our family across the aisle, leaving me wedged beside strangers, staring at the dull interior of this metal cocoon. Frustration simmers beneath my fatigue, and the anticipation of our holiday feels more like apprehension, overshadowing any flicker of enthusiasm.

There is sudden commotion from across the isle, the children jumping up and making way, my husband calling me to come see. Their energy is infectious, breaking through my weariness. I untangle myself from the seat and squeeze past, drawn by their excitement to peer our of the window. My first glimpse of the only remaining wonder of the ancient world rising from the sands far below, casting long geometric shadows across the desert. Surreal and magnificent, I am rendered speechless.

The pyramids command our notice, their presence impossible to ignore. Four thousand years old, millions of stones, an ancient feat of precision engineering that defies comprehension. Up close, they inspire even greater awe.

The priceless treasures of Tutankhamun, crafted to demand the notice of the gods, evoke awe with their intricate beauty. Each piece a testament to the artistry of human hands and the boundless creativity of humankind.

But I want to notice more and I want to more than notice.

I want to imprint them on my soul, both the monumental and the seemingly insignificant, exposing them to the light of my heart, so they can develop into memories I can revisit and marvel at again and again.

A raptor circles high above the Great Pyramid at Giza. A dove perches above the missing nose the Sphinx. A line of camels on the horizon. Horses stand, harnessed to colourful Hantor.

Angel fish swim round our feet in the shallow waters of the beach. We see a puffer fish and blue spotted ray, hermit crabs and lipstick tang.

The swallows slice through the air like tiny arrows, weaving around palm trees and wicker sunshades shaped like broad-brimmed hats.

The sparrows rise on blurred wings, their song lifting with them, gathering for a moment in the palms, then in a sudden burst, scattering again.

Bright lizards bask on sun-warmed pathways, their striking stripes and spots a flash of brilliance before vanishing as quickly as they appeared.

Coral reefs alive with purple tang, orange anthias, black and white chromis, coral groupers. The azure blue of the sky and the aquamarine of a crystal clear Red Sea.

Birds circle above the desert, the sun sets behind the mountains. A dog walks along the ridge, silhouetted against an amber sky. Bright colours swirl in the Tanoura dance.

The ornate architectural and spiritual majesty of mosques rising above the low buildings. Birds circling and spiralling around them mirror the spiralling design of intricate minarets.

Washing hangs from the windows in Cairo, bright colours against a backdrop of sandstone and ochre. The fabric sways and flutters in the dry winds, a delicate display of movement in the stillness of the landscape.

To notice is the first act of creativity.

One day, my memories will fade, my body will return to the earth, but the moments I have witnessed can live on. Creativity gives them form, transforming fleeting experiences into something tangible, something lasting.

So, I will keep noticing. I will gather the small wonders: a murder of crows, a fox in the fading light, swallows skimming the water. I will give them a place to rest, in words, in images, in whatever form they ask to be held.

To draw, to write, to create is to bear witness, to turn noticing into legacy. It’s a way of saying, I was here. I saw. I felt. And in creating, I offer something that lives beyond me. a testament to the beauty I gathered along the way.

Bye for now,

from my camera roll