The other day, I was walking with a friend when I took her by surprise.
I stopped short, leaned down, and said, “Oh, gotta get this guy out of the road,” then picked up a tiny beige caterpillar and moved the little guy into the plants that it was slowly inching toward.
She wasn’t so much surprised that I moved it out of the way.
While perhaps a bit unusual, it’s a simple and decent thing to do. She would have done the same if she had seen it.
But that was it—she was very surprised that I saw the critter at all. A slightly translucent small beige caterpillar does not stand out on slightly bumpy beige stone walkway.
Here’s what’s happened:
Since I started painting again and specifically focusing on the landscape around me here in Dordogne, I’ve become much more aware of the seasons, the environment, and everything in it.
From one day to the next, I notice which plants are which color. The rose hips were the first touch of red this autumn. Then creeper vines lit the landscape on fire. Now the sumac and smoke bush are joining the party.
What’s more, my vision has actually gotten better—or certainly keener.
Spotting that caterpillar was not the first time I’ve surprised someone by picking out an otherwise invisible camouflaged creature from its hiding place. A swallowtail caterpillar standing on a blade of grass; a teeny snail amid my painting tools while working in the river.
Just the other day with the family, I met my first ever conehead mantis blending into the late season thyme we were harvesting for winter culinary projects.
And they are known for being rare because they are so sneakily discrete!
Spending time looking and practicing curiosity has actually made me better at looking.
And I’m so grateful for everything I see.
The diversity of life found just here in the fields and forest around us in the French countryside is astounding.
It’s humbling to be reminded how many other creatures we share this world with if we only look.
Who, like us, are just trying to get by and find happiness in their own way.
Becoming friends with bugs was not on my mind when I took my canvas and paints outside.
It wasn’t even really on my mind when I started tuning in to the landscape and the changing seasons more. But it’s an unintended side effect.
I naturally pick them out of the landscape now.
I get the chance to stop and slow down and consider what an experience so different from mine might be like.
To remember that change—in the seasons, in the landscape, in our relationships, in our own bodies—is happening to all of us, and we all have to face it the best we can.
Every painting I make is a record of this process.
Of every changing color; every bug I meet. An ode to the beauty of this place, of the creatures we share it with, and of finding our place in it amidst the endless change that is life.
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