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478 words

Hey Reader,

I was still squatted on my rock like Gollum, watching the tide come back.

“I’ll see you back at the tent,” he said.

I waved and blew a kiss, and turned back to my sunset and my tide.

I’d been there for about an hour, just watching.

Estuaries are cool.

If you stand still for long enough, herons join you. So do sandpipers and oystercatchers.

But I was there for the patterns made by the tide meeting the river flow. Which way would the water flow around this rock? That one?

Which patch of sand would succumb to the sea first?

Would the creep follow this channel, or that one? What if I poked a little dent into the sand just here?

What kind of eddies would the current make around that little depression in the sand?

Oh — and there’s a crab. Hi little dude.

I tell myself I’m not good at being still, and it’s true; I’m not.

Except when I am.

I can be still for hours on a beach, watching the tide come in, observing the water flow and trying to predict which route will cut off first, and why. Maybe I should have studied fluid dynamics.

Those moments are magic for creativity because I notice all sorts of stuff. Not just the water, but the type of sand, the grains. Flotsam in the tide. The creatures that live in rockpools. And while I’m noticing all that, my mind is churning away in the background, making connections I can pull out later.

It’s worth doing regularly and you don’t need a beach.

At Harvard, Jennifer Roberts teaches art history and the first assignment for her students is always the same: choose a piece of art and look at it for three hours.

No phone, no books, no distractions.

Just stare at the artwork. Notice it. See what changes for you and how your perception of it deepens.

For the most part, we only see the surface; that’s all we give ourselves time for.

But when we give ourselves the gift of staring at something, distraction-free, something amazing happens.

We start to see what’s really there, underneath.

Not just an estuary and the tide coming in, but the patterns that shape the landscape.

Not just a pretty painting but the brushstrokes and the motifs echoed around the art. The folds of cloth in a curtain in the background are the same curves in the dress the subject is wearing in the foreground.

The shadows on the Mona Lisa’s face that make her smile — and then not smile — as your eye travels around the painting.

The lines on your face that tell the story of who you are and where you’ve been.

That stillness is uncomfortable at first. Boring, even.

Until you start seeing the details.

Then you really have something to write about.

TTFN,

Vicky 🫡

p.s. In January, I’m running something you might like — a challenge to get you not just writing, but thinking and seeing the world differently. I’ll share all the details next week.

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