Five minutes, tops. That’s all I plan on staying. I didn’t know my five-minute errand was about to become an evening of nature inspiration.

All I’m doing is delivering watermelon rinds to my friend Kayla for her critters.

I pull into the driveway and park near the corral. She’s putzing around in the pen, tending to Sally Goat and Checkers, her horse. Taking her sweet time about it too before heading in my direction.

Do you detect a slight note of me being pissy? Why yes, you do.

I don’t have all day. I really need to get home and feed my people. And my friend is moving on island time.

Except we’re not on an island.

She ambles over to my car. Before I can hand her the bag of critter treats, she holds up her hand and studies my front fender.

“Hang on.”

A dragonfly has somehow gotten caught there.

She carefully works it free and carries it over to the weeds, gently tucking it into the grass.

“Is it dead?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

Then she looks at me.

“Wanna see more dragonflies?”

I really do need to get home.

But what the heck.

Sure.

She leads me down a path through waist-high grass and down a small embankment.

As ponds go, it’s not especially picturesque—at least not at first glance.

Brownish water.

A muddy bottom.

Big clusters of water lilies—not the photogenic kind with perfect white flowers. Just the pads.

Pond grasses poking through the water like green spears.

Trees all around.

And quiet.

The kind of quiet that makes you lower your voice without even thinking about it.

Kayla points.

“There.”

I look.

Nothing.

She points again.

A dragonfly zips past before I can get a proper look.

Then I spot two of them attached to each other on a lily pad.

Kayla says they’re mating.

Which is way less exciting than it sounds.

I spend the next few minutes romancing the ’fly with my camera.

“Shhhh…”

Kayla puts a finger to her lips and points toward a tangle of branches along the shore.

At first I don’t know what I’m looking for. I get caught up in noticing the texture of the branches.

Then I see it.

A tiny bird with a bright patch of red on its throat.

Somewhere overhead, a pair of ravens starts calling.

I call back. Ravens are special to me. It’s a long story, one that deserves its own post. (Note to self: good subject for next week’s post)

But I’m surprised when Kayla calls back too. Ravens are on her shit list.

For a minute or two we stand there talking to ravens, having absolutely no idea what we’re saying in raven-speak.

I’m saying hello. How are ‘ya. How’s the wife and fam?

Kayla’s probably telling them to fuck off.

The ravens drift away.

The quiet settles back over the pond.

Kayla points out pond critters. Tadpoles. Tiny things darting through the muddy shallows. Something moving slowly across the bottom.

The stuff that happens in healthy ponds.

Meanwhile, I’m photographing lily pads. Reflections. The blades of grass rising through the water.

The lines. The shapes. The colors.

Kayla tells me about the great blue heron that sometimes visits the pond.

It isn’t there that evening.

But after she mentions it, I find myself scanning every fallen log and distant branch, hoping it might appear.

Without realizing it, the rush I arrived with begins draining away.

Standing there, the slowness seeps into my bones.

We’ve been there quite a while when Kayla whispers one more time.

“There.”

This time I find it almost immediately.

A young fawn steps out from the grasses and stands perfectly still, looking straight at us.

Around it floats a froth of soft pink weeds catching the evening light. Muted greens. Dusty pinks. Soft edges dissolving into one another.

If I’d painted it, someone would probably tell me I’d overdone the pink. I’ve been known to do that.

A second fawn stays hidden, giving itself away only by the slightest movement in the grasses.

Eventually they slip quietly back into the field.

The quiet closes around us again.

Creative Inspiration Begins with Noticing

It wasn’t until I was driving home that I realized we’d spent the evening looking at the same pond in completely different ways.

She’s a scientist.

I’m a painter.

She was reading the life in the pond.

I was reading the design.

Neither of us was wrong.

In fact, we both left seeing more than we would have on our own.

I only meant to drop something off.

Instead, I came home with far too many photographs of lily pads, a conversation with ravens, and a quiet reminder that sometimes the best way to see more is to see it through someone else’s eyes.

This week’s creative prompt: Notice what someone else notices.

Go somewhere with another person and let them lead.

Ask, “What are you looking at?”

Follow their attention for a while.

You don’t have to come home interested in the same things.

Just notice what changes when you stop looking for what you always look for.

Until next week—