Paying Attention

I came across a phrase recently which has been rolling around in my head and sparking thoughts, something along the lines of “whatever you pay attention to, becomes your life”. After a little judicious googling, it seems to originate with Epicetus, a Stoic philosopher who lived over 2,000 years ago. He goes on to mention that if you don’t choose what concepts and images you engage with, someone else will choose for you. In today’s attention economy, where we can distract ourselves at any moment of the day with “content” (surely a murky word?) it feels pretty much on the nose. Last Friday I was travelling by train from Bristol to London, to visit my parents. Instead of reading or listening to a podcast, I chose instead to stare out of the window and jot down what I noticed with a notebook and pencil.

Field Notes
As we trundle through Somerset I see rivers high, slow and brown, threatening to overspill into surrounding fields. A sense of saturation. All around are bare branches, dry grasses, the scenes feel muted, sketched in pastels, a little fuzzy round the edges. There are fluffy festoons of Old Man’s Beard or if you prefer another name, Traveller’s Joy, which feels apt. I have a sudden memory of the light brown duffle coat I wore when I was about five years old (although admittedly much of the early 1980s is tinged brown in reminiscence, it was a very brown time), which sparks off thoughts of a new year visit to my grandparents in Cambridgeshire on the edge of the fens. Something familiar in the flatness.

The edge of the Cotswolds yields a treasure of golden stone buildings, an ornate bridge. Tunnels. As the landscape undulates more, there are cuttings, trees flash up embankments, silver birch and copper beech. We hum and trundle through the early afternoon, a woman sleeps across the aisle from me, this is the quiet carriage after all. I feel weary and worried, and despite my best intentions my attention wavers from the window and I check my phone. I’ll be happier when I see those two blue dots united on the map, my husband home from dropping our oldest at university, back in Bristol to hold things steady while I am away for the weekend. Then I will be truly loosed from responsibility, if only for a while.

I see a magpie flash past in flight, one for sorrow the old rhyme says, but maybe if I touch my collar and silently say “good morning” the bad luck will be averted. The edges of railway tracks are liminal inbetween places, and depressingly I also spy human activity, rubbish flytipped, half obscured by brambles. No amount of natural processing will compost that lot. An electricity substation, fenced and forbidding. Keep Out. Danger of Death. I refocus my attention and choose instead to see the outstretched ranks of buddleia, brown heads dangling damply now but summer will bring the butterflies. These plants are the ultimate survivors and opportunists, able to live in the thinnest of soils, often growing in cracks that seem to have no soil at all.

And then just after Swindon, a real treat, a flash of broad wings spreading and soaring. Is it? It is! A Red Kite, I spot the distinctive tail. I count at least four more before we reach Reading with its tangle of tracks, overhead gantries and criss-crossing wires. Common in Shakespeare’s time, these birds were hunted almost to extinction by the beginning of the twentieth century. However, thanks to reintroduction programmes by wildlife charities they have made an impressive comeback, with their population growing by 2,464% between 1995 and 2023. A conservation success story for once, I will take any sliver of good news.

I have recently enjoyed reading Weeds by Richard Mabey, which is a really intricate discussion of how we define weeds, and has great storytelling, with more on Buddleia and lots of other plants. Also there's more information about Red Kites on the RSPB website. The photo shows the epic sunrise from my bedroom window on Sunday morning. Something about being away from home reminded me that dawn really is incredible, and it happens every day.