The Art of Noticing: A Quiet Fall Photo Adventure - Nov 29, 2025

I woke to an overcast, heavy fall morning—the kind where the sky hangs low and winter whispers at the edges of every cloud. Normally I love days like this for photography, but today my mind wasn’t my friend. Grief and depression wrapped around me before I even got out of bed. Some days, sadness feels like a full-body weight.

But photography has become my sanctuary—my moving meditation—something I’ve learned and leaned on over the past three years. So I grabbed my gear, kissed my kitty goodbye, and pushed myself gently out the door with a quiet promise: Just show up. Just try.

When I arrived at the waterfront, I wasn’t expecting much. The bay looked empty. My heart felt empty too. But standing there, breathing in the cold ocean air, I made a small choice that shifted everything. I decided to practice the art of noticing.

I started with whatever caught my eye. Kelp drifting in patterns that reminded me of floating spaghetti. Driftwood etched with stories carved by salt and time.

And in that dim fall light, the rocks looked like crumpled newspaper, all folds and greys, with the yellow lichen dotting them like tiny mustard drops. It made me laugh out loud.

Cedar branches still holding the memory of the forest. Tree bark layered like miniature mountain ranges.

And then there was the bright yellow lichen—my favourite. A shocking blaze of gold against dark grey rock. The closer I leaned in, the more alive it became.

Lichens have always fascinated me, but today, they felt symbolic: these tiny, ancient communities of algae and fungus living in partnership. Some species live for hundreds of years, quietly thriving where almost nothing else can. They’re so sensitive to pollution that when you see the bright yellow ones, like the ones I found today, it often means the ocean air is clean and vibrant.

Something spiritual stirred in me as I photographed them. Lichens like this grow in places where conditions can be harsh — salt spray, wind, extreme temperature changes — yet they thrive in vivid colour. They’re quiet symbols of resilience, partnership, and adaptability.

I kept wandering, breathing, noticing. And then suddenly, something shifted in the corner of my vision.

A bald eagle.

A shock of awe ran through me. I grabbed my tripod, whispering, “Please don’t move…” over and over like a mantra as I hurried down the walkway. The wind was icy, my fingers numb, but I got the shot.

And then I noticed…

There were two.

It was Eddie and Edith Eagle, the resident pair—him perched tall on the boat marker, her sitting below him watching the bay with the calm awareness only eagles have.

In that moment, they felt like guides. Silent teachers. A reminder that strength doesn’t always come with noise or certainty—sometimes it waits patiently until you lift your eyes.

I shot photos. Filmed their gentle movements. Let the presence of these magnificent beings settle something inside me. I was freezing, but I stayed. When you love something enough, the cold becomes secondary and the moment becomes everything.

Cold to the bone, I headed back toward my car. That’s when a little flock of pigeons and gulls—my unintentional fan club—wandered up to see what I was about.

So I sat on the cold cement and photographed them.

People often overlook pigeons, but up close, they are stunning. The iridescent greens and purples on their necks shift with every angle of light. Their patterns are intricate, soft, and endlessly varied. And what many don’t know is that pigeons can actually recognize human faces—and remember who’s kind. Their loyalty and intelligence run deeper than most people give them credit for.

Did you know?

Rock pigeons come in an incredible range of colors because they carry more colour genes than almost any other bird. Their shimmering greens and purples aren’t actually pigment—they’re created by microscopic structures in the feathers that bend and reflect light, similar to hummingbirds and peacocks.

Even more fascinating: many of their colour patterns, like the classic blue-bar or checkered wings, trace back to ancient domesticated pigeons, which means the birds we see in cities today are descended from a long history of human companionship and selective breeding.

Of course, once I shared a few seeds with the pigeons, the gulls swooped in—bold, loud, unapologetically themselves.

But gulls are far more than noisy beach birds. The red dot on their beaks isn’t random—it’s actually a feeding signal for their chicks, a cue that tells the babies where to peck for food.

And young gulls, like the sweet milk-chocolate-colored juvenile who followed me around today, keep their mottled brown plumage for up to four years before they grow into the crisp white of adulthood.

Watching them move around me, I noticed their colors in a way I hadn’t before. It felt like a small spiritual nudge—showing me that even the simplest creatures turn extraordinary when we pause and let ourselves be present with them.

Cormorants, Harlequins & the Gift of Being Present

I stood up to leave, still laughing at the gull antics, when two Double-crested Cormorants landed out on the water. Sleek, prehistoric silhouettes. I grabbed a few portraits and took a moment just to watch them.

And then I saw her—the female harlequin duck. One of my favourite birds. Subtle, earthy, beautifully patterned. I’ve been trying to get a good shot of a female for ages, but she and her small group were skittish today, scuttling off whenever people wandered near. For a moment I felt disappointment, but then I heard nature’s quiet nudge: Some moments aren’t meant to be captured. Some are meant to be respected.

In the stillness I created for myself, a male harlequin drifted into view, bobbing his head into the water with a gentle rhythm as he fished. It struck me how easily I could have walked past that moment. The art of noticing isn’t just about seeing—it’s about allowing the world to slow you down.

Frozen and tired but also deeply soothed, I finally drove home. And just when I thought the day had given me all it had to give, I spotted one last gift. A bald eagle perched on top of a hotel sign, surveying the world like a guardian.

I burst out laughing. Alright universe. I hear you. Loud and clear. Sometimes the magic isn’t something you chase. Sometimes it finds you while you are driving home!

I didn’t get a lot of photos today. Nothing glamorous. Nothing perfectly timed.

But what I did get was far more important: A reminder that even on the darkest days, when grief clings to your ribs and your thoughts turn heavy, the world is still full of tiny wonders ready to meet you—if you’re willing to notice them.

And maybe the lichen, and the pigeons, and the gulls, and the eagles were all saying the same thing: You’re not alone. Beauty is still here. Keep noticing. Keep going.