Paying Attention

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

~Emily Dickinson

After I sent out last month’s newsletter about the importance of continuing to create art even in these atrocious times, a lovely reader shared this aphorism, “Where the mind goes, energy flows.” I’ve been thinking about it ever since, and trying to pull my attention away from the horrors (while of course still reading enough to stay informed and writing letters and signing petitions and attending protests) and instead direct it toward where I want my energy to flow: writing and art, family and friends, and, always, the natural world.

In The Artist’s Way, Julia Cameron talks about the power of attention—in the context of her grandmother, who saw and shared joy and beauty in flowers and birds and garden vegetables, despite being married to a ne’er-do-well, and in her own experience of finding this kind of joy and beauty after her own divorce. Cameron writes, “The quality of life is in proportion, always, to the capacity for delight. The capacity for delight is the gift of paying attention.” Later she adds, “The reward for attention is always healing. . . . More than anything else, attention is an act of connection.”

If you’d like an opportunity to practice both attention and connection, and if you’re local, consider joining one of the workshops I’ll be offering next month on writing about and drawing—and paying attention to—birds. One is a four-week backyard bird journaling workshop at Viles Arboretum and the other is a one-morning bird poetry workshop at Hidden Valley Nature Center. More info at the bottom of this newsletter.

One thing I’ve found helpful for keeping my energy and my attention focused is to maintain regular practices. This includes daily yoga and journaling, as well as various challenges I either set for myself or pick up from the outside world. One of these, which I’ve participated in several times over the last few years, is the 100-Day Project, which is just what it sounds like: picking a creative project and practicing it every day for 100 days straight. I’ve used the 100-Day Project as an opportunity to explore watercolor, draw the illustrations for my book, and try pen-and-ink sketching. Some years I’ve been more successful than others—meaning I did my project for all 100 days—and some years I’ve stopped far short. Last year I set out to write one nature poem every day, and while I got 100 poems written, I finished the last one on January 31st (the project started on February 18th).

For this year’s project, I’m drawing or painting a bird every day, to get in the groove for the bird journaling workshop I’m teaching in April. I’m using a few different resources to help me expand my repertoire and elevate my skills, mainly John Muir Laws’s videos (free) and book and Amy Stewart’s videos (paid subscription), and I’m playing with different media—watercolor, colored pencil, watercolor pencil, graphite, pen, and my first foray into gouache. I’m also only drawing birds that I see, either on or close to the day on which I’m drawing. Which gets me paying attention to which birds are out and about. And knowing I need to get my bird drawing in for the day keeps me from sinking into that afternoon staring-into-the-abyss mindset that the current zeitgeist promotes.

While the 100-Day Project “officially” began on February 23, you could begin your own 100-Day Project any day of the year. I find it really helpful to commit to learning and growing in one small area of my life, like poetry or painting, with no expectation of an outcome outside of my own personal satisfaction. If you were going to commit to 100 days of creativity, what would you focus on?

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On Monday when I walked to the mailbox in the afternoon, I heard a strange but also familiar call, and I looked up into the bare aspen trees to see a handful of dark birds making their way toward the road. I didn’t have my binoculars with me, so couldn’t get a close look, and instead shuttled through my mental field guide, using the birds’ size and flight behavior to narrow them down to red-winged blackbirds! At that moment one of them sang, conk-la-ree, confirming my identification. Male red-wings show up here in late winter (sometimes as early as February), and are the surest sign for me that spring is on its way.

On Wednesday morning, several American robins were poking around in the soggy ground of our newly exposed yard and later in the day, when I was driving home from errands, I saw a small flock of Canada geese. That night I stepped outside to see if I could hear any American woodcocks, and not only was I rewarded with a nasally peent, but I could also hear a northern saw-whet owl whistling down by the river. Today the black-capped chickadees and tufted titmice have been singing their springtime songs (hey sweetie and chiva chiva chiva, respectively). Though I’ve heard them singing here and there over the last month or so, this was the first time it sounded like their hearts were really in it.

By now dear old Emily D’s poem is a cliché, but I still love it—both the image of a feathered creature perching in my soul1, giving me reason to move on from one trying moment to another, and also the notion that birds are a sign of hope, because each new arrival and each burst of song every spring is what makes these last dregs of winter bearable. Now, here I could go into all of the ways we humans are making the future for birds less hopeful, but I don’t want to be that guy. So instead I’ll leave you with the suggestion to go outside and see what birds are around wherever you are in the world right now, and with a few more words from Julia Cameron: “When the future is too terrifying to contemplate and the past too painful to remember, I have learned to pay attention to right now. The precise moment I was in was always the only safe place for me. Each moment, taken alone, was always bearable. In the exact now, we are all, always, all right.”

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This has been a dry season for writing, with no new publications, lots of rejections, and even a blockage on new writing. Let’s hope spring and a renewed focus on paying attention gets the ink flowing.

I have been consuming a lot of books however, and you can check out my February Reads here.

And if you haven’t read it yet, with hiking season on the horizon now would be a great time to pick up my book, Uphill Both Ways: Hiking toward Happiness on the Colorado Trail.

Journaling Backyard Birds, Viles Arboretum, Augusta, ME, April 1, 8, 15, and 22
Amy Tan’s delightful book The Backyard Bird Chronicles demonstrates how careful observation and recording of the activities of the feathered visitors to our yards and feeders can turn these mysterious wild creatures into familiar friends, each with its own story to tell. Join us for a creative and inspiring workshop that combines birdwatching, writing, and art to deepen your connection to nature. In this four-session workshop, we’ll read and discuss select passages from The Backyard Bird Chronicles and use these as inspiration to create illustrated journals of our own bird observations. Through in-class lessons and take-home exercises, participants will:

• Learn the basics of nature drawing and writing.

• Develop skills in observing and recording bird behavior.

• Cultivate a creative practice that fosters a deeper appreciation for the natural world.

Poetry is for the Birds, Hidden Valley Nature Center, Jefferson, ME, April 5, 2025
Birds have long been a source of inspiration to poets around the world. With April marking the beginning of bird migration season in Maine, what better time to explore our feathered friends through poetry of our own? In this workshop, we'll walk into HVNC, looking and listening for birds. We'll talk about birds as symbols, metaphors, and poetic subjects in their own right; look at examples of bird poetry; and use the ideas and images we've gathered to create poems about the birds we encounter--or imagine--while in the nature center. Be sure to dress for the weather, including periods of sitting still outdoors, and consider bringing an insulated pad to sit on.

Pay attention to now, dear friends, and feel the feathered thing perching in your soul.