Soft Fascination

I've spent this year purposefully living outside more often.

Less time in front of glowing screens. Less of my brain preoccupied with synchronized calendars and overly-ambitious-to-do list. I wanted to do more. I wanted to worry less. Spend more time with dirty fingernails, less time inside my head. 

So I spent this year outside noticing tree stands and moonlight, leaf veins and fireflies. I watched pine needles fall into ponds. I sat and listened to night noises.

Leafing through a magazine yesterday I found the name for this habit. It's called soft fascination. That washed clean feeling that comes from noticing something like rainfall or a sunset. Something too lovely, too awe-inspiring for your brain to get caught up with whatever else is going on.

The quieting effect that being outside had on my brain. Strangely enough, I found it was entirely disconnected from my life's circumstance. Good day, bad day, feeling fabulous or a failure I found that if I noticed enough of the world that lives and breathes with or without me just being outside had virtually the same effect. I felt small or still and particularly well placed.