What We See

I think people have forgotten how to open their eyes. All they see are white puffs in the sky and tall brown sticks with green cotton candy around them. I don't see this. I see the golden rim that highlights the edges of clouds in the morning and how the sky changes from pink to purple when the sun sets. I see the way leaves flutter in the wind and glow when the sun hits them. The little pink clover by the tip of my toe and the way the grass dances on the prairie.

What do you see? Do you see the way moss appears on the sides of trees after it rains and how the once brown trunk is now covered with green? Do you notice the maze of petals on a rose as it unfurls? Do you see the cascade of ivy creeping over a fence or how the spiky purple blossom of a thistle matches the rest of it's prickly character? I do. I see each and every one of these.

We have become blind to nature and the serene landscape that we live in. I want you to go outside for three minutes, just three, and I want you to look around and see the little things you might have missed before. Then, come back here and tell me all the things you saw that you hadn't seen before. I want to hear what you saw when you opened your eyes, for what might be, the first time.