Camas flowers.

I stopped — because how could I not?

This is one of the gifts nature journaling has given me. It has trained me to pause. To look again. To move from pretty flower to wait, what exactly am I seeing?

Each camas flower had six petals. Six points, like a small purple star. And along each tall stalk were little buds waiting their turn — closed now, but holding the promise of opening into that same six-pointed shape.

Nature journaling is often described as recording with numbers, pictures, and words. But the heart of it, for me, comes down to three simple prompts:

I notice.
I wonder.
It reminds me of.

I noticed the purple.
I noticed the six petals.
I noticed the unopened buds.
I wondered how long they had been growing there.
I wondered who else had stopped to see them.

And then I wanted to learn more.

I didn’t realize how important camas has been to this region. Its bulbs were a crucial food source for many Indigenous peoples across the Pacific Northwest and beyond, including Coast Salish, Kalapuya, Yakama, Nez Perce, Blackfoot, and Cree communities. Camas prairies were often carefully tended and harvested across generations. The plant was not just beautiful — it was food, relationship, stewardship, and survival.

Camas bulbs also played a role in the survival of members of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, especially through the knowledge and generosity of Indigenous people who knew the plant well.

And, as with many things in nature, there is a warning tucked into the wonder: camas has a poisonous look-alike called death camas. It can grow in the same areas, and its bulbs can look dangerously similar. One helpful field distinction is that edible camas usually blooms blue-purple, while death camas is often white or cream-colored — but this is not a plant to casually forage without expert guidance.

All of this from one moment on a run.

One pause.

One flower.

One small decision to look more closely.

That is what I love about nature journaling. It makes me naturally curious. It turns the ordinary edges of my day — a sidewalk, a trail, a patch of spring green — into a doorway.

So this is your invitation:

Pause mid-run.
Mid-walk.
Mid-whatever.

Choose one thing growing or living just outside your front door and do a tiny deep dive.

Notice it.
Wonder about it.
Let it remind you of something.

Then learn one small thing you didn’t know before.

And tell me what you find

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There are days when I go outside with the quiet intention of noticing.

Not gardening or weed pulling.
Not sketching something accurate or shareable or “good.”
Just… noticing.

Today felt like one of those days.

It feels as if spring has arrived all at once this year — everything bursting into growth at the same time. Warm air, blue skies. The kind of days that don’t ask anything of you, only call you outside to join in on the life in progress. Partly sunny skies. Air warm enough to soften your shoulders. The kind of light that moves slowly across the ground, catching on things you might otherwise miss.

I stepped into the backyard, which feels less like a yard this time of year and more like a small, living edge of something wilder. It’s like I have my own private nature park — a bog that leans toward the creek, soft underfoot, full of layers, and always changing with the seasons.

There’s so much here right now.

New growth pushing through in bright, almost electric greens.
Older leaves holding deeper, quieter tones.
Pollen drifting. Ferns slowly unfurling.

And everywhere — the unmistakable presence of skunk cabbage. You learn to forgive the smell, eventually.

That sharp, earthy scent settles into the air and lingers low to the ground, threading through everything. Not pleasant, exactly. But not something you can ignore either. It belongs here — a signal of the season, of water moving, of life pushing up through the saturated earth.

Everything exists at once — not in uniformity, but in variation.

Greens, yellows, whites, and browns ruled the day.
Not in clean separation, but layered. Blended. Softly overlapping. If you didn’t look closely, you could easily miss the transitions.

That was the shift today.

Instead of trying to draw what I saw, I decided to collect color.

I opened my nature journal and let go of the idea of making anything recognizable. No outlines. No “clean” representations. Just small swatches and shapes — attempts to mix what I was seeing using a limited palette.

And almost immediately, something changed.

I had to slow down.

Not in the way we often talk about slowing down — but in a more precise, attentive way. To mix a color, you have to look longer. You have to compare. Adjust. Try again.

The green of new growth wasn’t just green.
It leaned yellow in some places, cooler in others.
Some leaves carried a softness to them — almost translucent.
Others held weight. Depth. A kind of quiet steadiness.

And I realized very quickly —
I wasn’t even close to capturing all of it.

Not even a fraction.

There are more shades of green in my backyard right now than I could reasonably mix in an afternoon. I could devote an entire journal to the variations of green alone.

And maybe that’s the point.

Pollen drifted through the air while I worked, catching in the light and settling on everything — including the pages of my journal. Birds moved through the trees in layers of sound — chirping, calling, squawking, those small, almost electronic beeps. Every so often, I heard scratching in the dried leaves. Sometimes I spotted squirrels foraging or towhees searching for a snack.

The scent of skunk cabbage lingered the entire time — grounding it all. A reminder that this wasn’t curated or idealized. It was real. Alive. Slightly messy in the way nature always is.

This kind of journaling doesn’t produce something traditionally “beautiful.”

There’s no finished sketch to point to.
No polished page.

But it gives you something else.

It deepens your ability to see.

To notice the differences between things that, at a glance, feel the same.
To understand that what looks like “just green” is actually a hundred variations quietly coexisting.

It asks for attention — and gives it back in a different form.

I didn’t capture it all today.

I wasn’t supposed to.

But I left with a page full of color that feels more honest than anything I could have drawn.

And a quiet awareness that there’s still so much more here.

If you’ve been feeling stuck creatively or unsure where to begin, this is a gentle place to start:

Go outside. It doesn’t have to be a natural area. You could go to a coffee shop, a performance, or even a pub.
Pick one thing — a color, a texture, a small section of space, words, sounds, whatever.
And try to tune into it more closely than you normally would.

Not to make something good.
Just to notice.

No pressure.
No performance.
Just practice.

Just simply plugging in.

Happy creating,
Autumn

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The Pacific Northwest shifts seasons in layers.

I tend to experience seasons in color — colors changing, layering, deepening.

Then one morning, there are buds where there were only bare twigs.
The moss looks brighter. Crocuses appear almost overnight, small and vibrant against the damp soil.
The light lingers half a breath longer in the evenings and begins arriving earlier at the edges of dawn.

And without really deciding to, I reach for my nature journal again. It feels instinctual.

After a season of creative hibernation, it feels less like a choice and more like a return. I don’t set out to retreat each winter, but my process seems to follow its own quiet rhythm — gathering inward, conserving, waiting. And when the light shifts, something in me shifts with it.

The page opens. The season opens. My noticing sparks anew. I begin again.

I brought my journal with me this week on a damp trail walk — the kind where the air smells like wet earth with just a hint of sweetness. Valletta trotted ahead, nose to the ground, completely convinced she was conducting serious scientific research. She conducts these “studies” every few feet.

I wasn’t looking for anything specific. I just wanted to be outside and sense everything.

That’s the point.

Nature journaling, for me, isn’t about creating something impressive. It’s about noticing — and connecting to the natural world around me.

A cluster of ducks chattered as they floated along the creek, while two geese stood guard nearby, eyeing Valletta and me as if we had clearly not been vetted.
The way the creek water moves differently in early spring than it does in early summer.
The shape of a fern as it begins to uncurl.

Small things.
Ordinary things.
The kinds of things I would miss if I hurried.

And then there are the birds.

Valletta is not always a patient pup when it comes to my outdoor journaling sessions, so I snapped a few photos to continue observing and sketching once I was back home.

After returning home, I settled into my office with my journal nearby and found myself staring out into the backyard. The fast-sprawling willow had become a gathering place, and I began counting the varieties of birds visiting throughout the afternoon:

Robin
Steller’s Jay
Junco
Northern Flicker
Hairy Woodpecker
Crow
Black-capped Chickadee
Bushtit
Hummingbird
Barred Owl
Dove

I was amazed at the variety in a single day — all coming and going without conflict, sharing the same tree, the same air.

When I begin capturing these moments on the page, it isn’t about perfection.

Nothing polished. Nothing frame-worthy. Just lines and notes and a few color swatches, trying to capture the early blooms that only exist here this time of year.

It is during this practice that I find something in me settles.

There’s a particular kind of quiet that comes from observing rather than producing a finished piece. From recording instead of performing. From letting the page hold the moment so you don’t have to.

That’s one of the many reasons I love nature journaling.

In a world that constantly asks us to output, refine, and share, this practice feels like permission to simply witness.

To look.
To linger.
To learn what the season is teaching.

That gentle return — to noticing, to curiosity, to connection — is why I created Connecting with Nature: A Guided Nature Journal.

Connecting with Nature: A Guided Nature Journal

It’s not meant to be another task or expectation. It’s a companion for slow walks, backyard observations, and those small, ordinary moments that quietly shape us.

It’s a place to begin for the first time or the third—wherever you are in your journey. It’s a gentle nudge from me telling you to try this practice.

If you’ve been feeling the shift in the light too…
If you’ve sensed something in you wanting to open again…

This might be a gentle place to begin.

When I first made it, I wasn’t trying to create something complicated. I wanted a simple, structured place to return to — something that gently guided the practice without over-directing it.

Inside are prompts to help you:

• Notice patterns across seasons

• Sketch without pressure

• Record weather, mood, and small observations

• Reflect on what the natural world is teaching you

It’s designed for real life — muddy boots, uneven lines, imperfect handwriting and all.

You don’t have to be an artist.
You don’t have to be outdoors for hours.
You don’t have to make anything “good.”

You just have to look.

If you’re brand new to nature journaling, there are also wonderful free resources available through the Wild Wonder Foundation — including video lessons, prompts, and a supportive community for beginners and experienced journalers alike. It’s a generous place to learn and feel encouraged.

Spring feels like an invitation every year. Not to reinvent yourself — but to pay attention again.

If you’ve been feeling disconnected, overstimulated, or creatively stuck, this practice can be a gentle way back to steadiness.

And if you’d like a guided place to begin, Connecting with Nature is available here:

Connecting With Nature: A Nature Journal

As always, thank you for being here — whether you’re reading quietly, sketching beside me in spirit, or just letting these words be a small pause in your week.

The season is changing.

We’re allowed to change with it.

— Autumn

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Spring weather is upon us. Folks here in Oregon call this a “false spring,” as the warm, sunny conditions are a bit early and usually followed by a cold snap. The flowers and trees seem to be fooled. Or, perhaps, they want springtime conditions just as much as we humans do. Crocus and daffodils are blooming. Cherry blossoms are popping. And, the flickers are making a racket on all things metal to attract their mate. This doesn’t feel like a false spring to me.

Time will tell.

In the meantime, I’m taking advantage of this early spring and getting out in nature when possible. And when I get out in nature, I’m inspired to nature journal. My husband and I took a stroll at a nearby wildlife refuge. It’s one of my favorite places, especially during the summer. I pack my nature journaling kit, and I can sit for hours sketching the birds, the nutria, the anything and everything I can see.

While we were out there, I met a new-to-me bird. This little bird was surely making himself or herself known. As I crept closer to the tree it was hopping around in, it appeared to hop closer to us. It was just as curious about us humans as we were about it. Quite the bold little one! Soon, another joined in the game. One seemed to attract another and then another. It was the perfect subject for a new nature journal spread. I had never seen this species of bird out there before. Just goes to show the abundance of life and surprises we are surrounded by if we would only pause to look and pay attention.

Life has been heavy lately. Being in nature is a remedy. And this day and this bird were quite the gifts to lift the soul. I think there’s much to learn from these birds. I’m eager to return soon and hike to the same spot where I met these little wonders. I hope to see them again and capture more of their personality on the page in my nature journal.

I hope you have the opportunity to get out in nature and sit for a bit. If you do any nature journaling, please let me know how it goes by commenting! And, please let me know if there is anything I can do to help you on your nature journaling journey.

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After a bonkers day at work, I came home and decided I wanted to work in the yard and be outside. Not only is nature one of my self-care methods, but being active also helps purge the stress I carry home with me. So, I grabbed the rake from the garage and put on the rubber boots and gloves.

My yard backs up to a bog, which is wonderful for all things nature. It’s a wildlife highway back there, in addition to playing host to a variety of plant life that cycles throughout the warmer seasons. During the spring and summer months, it becomes a wall of green and an aviarium. I don’t have to go very far to nature journal.

Actually, none of us do.

John Muir Laws, founder of the Wild Wonder Foundation, would encourage you to investigate what’s inside your refrigerator, get curious, and sketch away! By the way, the Wild Wonder Foundation has a plethora of resources for nature journaling, including educational videos on how to draw and paint. It’s an amazing resource.

But back to the bog…

When I first stepped off the back deck I immediately saw it—the mystery feather. What a gift! For me, feathers are a special message from the Universe. And, when I happen upon one while out walking or during one of my runs, I pause to appreciate it and express my gratitude.

It was just lying there on top of the soggy earth. Its soft blended grays a beautiful contrast to the dark brown beneath it. I was surprised it was in such good condition. I picked it up and placed it inside to dry a little while I raked. It was the perfect inspiration to nature journal later.

The process:

I first start by doing a light pencil sketch to get the proportions how I want them. One of my favorite mechanical pencils is a Pentel Twist Erase size 0.5. This is a time when I look closely at the subject, noticing the natural lines, bends, shapes, and colors—where they separate and blend. As I’m looking closely, I let my mind wander and wonder. I get curious.

I notice…

I wonder…

It reminds me of…

All these wonderings and thoughts I write down without judgment or filtering. Curiosity is good for the brain, and it’s just simply a fun state to be in. I sometimes even do a little measuring and counting when the subject calls for it. Words, numbers, and pictures are the essential three languages of nature journaling.

When I’m satisfied with the pencil sketch (which is not detailed, just an outline), I begin to ink it in. I like using 005 black micron pens. I prefer the fine tip because I can make adjustments more easily than with a thicker point.

When finished, I jot down all of my thoughts and wonderings. I record what I notice, I wonder, and the connections I make from the “It reminds me of” prompt.

Oh, and don’t forget the metadata section! The metadata is that square in the upper left corner where I record the date, time, place, and conditions. I usually do that first before I begin the sketch.

Here is a diagram of all the parts of the page spread:

Now that I've documented the feather, I do want to research and try to identify who left this perfect gift behind for me to find. If I find out, I will post the answer! Also, I may go back and add a watercolor wash to capture the blending gray tones of the feather.

Have you stumbled upon any unexpected treasures recently? Will you try to document them?

Let me know how it goes!

That was the first question I had when noticing these woody little patterned structures. They are quite interesting when you take the time to look more closely at them.

My second question: What do I call the parts that fan outward?

My third question: Do they even have a special name? I bet they do.

The questions continued. And I wrote them all down. Because that’s what you do when you start to journal about nature.

Questioning is key when it comes to nature journaling. What is it that you wonder when looking at something more closely? Anything goes. There are no wrong wonderings, no wrong questions. Let your mind take a wondering walk without judgment. Open up a page in a notebook, pause for a moment in nature, and start by noticing something.

Just write.

Pick one thing. That’s right. Permit yourself to focus on just one thing. And then follow the three essential prompts:

I notice…

I wonder …

It reminds me of …

By doing this, you are nature journaling!

Nature journaling isn’t about making pretty art. It’s about taking the time to notice something in the natural world at a more intimate level. It could be a rock. A patch of moss. A leaf. A bird. And so on. This close noticing will not only calm the mind but will also inspire a deeper connection and appreciation of the natural world. You also begin to become a much more curious person and maybe even realize that you have so much to learn from and about the world around you! And that is rather exciting, isn’t it? Kind of feels like being a kid again.

Well, to answer the first question: “Both "pine cone" and "pinecone" are correct ways to write the word for the hard, egg-shaped fruit of a pine tree."

To answer the others, well, that is my next journey into the close study of pinecones/pine cones.

May you grab a journal. Get outside. Start noticing and wondering! Let me know how it goes.