Looking Again
Finding calm among the sunflowers of Umbria.
Only a few days ago, I was wandering through the streets of London.
The Underground rumbled beneath my feet. Coffee shops were full. People hurried towards meetings, theatres and trains. Every street seemed to offer another distraction, another reason to keep moving.
Then I came home to Umbria.
This morning, I took a short walk into a sunflower field.
The contrast felt almost surreal.
Not because one place is calmer than the other, or because one is somehow more meaningful. I love cities for the energy they create and the unexpected encounters they offer. But coming home reminded me that different places invite different kinds of attention.
London encouraged me to keep moving.
The sunflower field quietly asked me to stay.
I‘ve been looking forward to seeing the sunflowers again ever since last summer.
After living in Umbria for a few years, I’ve started to notice that certain things quietly announce the changing seasons. Cherries appear. Tomatoes begin ripening in the garden. Long dinners move outside.
Then, one morning, the sunflower fields return.
This year, I realised I wasn’t simply happy to see them again.
I was curious.
Since I started writing Foodie Goes Travel, I’ve realised something has changed in the way I look at places.
A few years ago, I probably would have stood at the edge of the field, taken one wide photograph, admired the view and walked home.
Instead, I spent decent amount of time wandering through the rows and observed these beautiful flowers up-close.
I crouched beside unopened flowers.
Walked around full opened ones.
Photographed the backs too, not just the fronts.
Waited for bees to land.
Without really noticing, writing has changed the way I see.
Not because I’m trying to find unusual photographs. But because I’ve become more interested in understanding what I’m looking at.
At first glance, it hardly looked like sunflower.
The flower already existed, but it was wrapped tightly inside layers of green leaves.
Only when I looked closely did I notice tiny flashes of yellow beginning to appear between them.
The sunflower wasn’t waiting to become something else.
It was simply opening at its own pace.
Then I found another.
And another.
Some remained tightly closed.
Others were only just beginning.
A few had almost completed the transformation.
From a distance it looked like a sunflower field. Up close, it became thousands of different stories unfolding at once.
I realised that some of my favourite photographs weren’t of the sunflower’s face at all.
They were taken from behind.
From that angle, it almost looked like a different plant. The neat spiral at the centre, the fine hairs along the stem and the layers of green bracts are usually hidden once our attention is drawn to the bright yellow petals. I had walked past countless sunflowers in my life without ever really noticing this side of them.
The same thing happened when I looked underneath the flower. A bee disappeared underneath the flower. A bee disappeared between the petals while another hovered nearby. The field wasn’t waiting for people to admire it. It had already begun its morning long before I arrived.
It made me wonder how often we stop looking once we think we’ve recognised something.
Perhaps paying attention isn’t always about discovering new places. Sometimes it’s simply about seeing familiar things more completely.
As I stayed longer, the less interested I became in photographing the perfect sunflower.
Instead, I was drawn to flowers turning away from me, half-open blooms, damaged petals and awkward angles.
They felt more interesting because they felt more real.
Paying close attention seems to have a quiet effect on my mind.
When I’m trying to notice how the petals unfold, or waiting a bee disappear beneath a flower, there isn’t much room left for everything else competing for my attention.
I’m not thinking about emails.
Or flights.
Or work.
Or the next article.
For a while, I’m simply looking.
Whether that’s a form of meditation, mindfulness or something else entirely, I don’t know.
I only know that I felt lighter, happier.
As I walked past, I realised I hadn’t spent the morning photographing sunflowers.
I’d spent it paying attention.
Perhaps that’s what writing Foodie Goes Travel has changed most.
Not where I travel. Not how much I travel.
But how willing I am to stay with something long enough for it to become interesting.
This morning, it happened to be a field of sunflowers.
Tomorrow, it might be something entirely ordinary again.
Further Reading
Waiting for Tomatoes - another essay about learning to notice everyday seasonal rhythms
Colours of Umbria - where landscape becomes more than scenery
The Space Between - which reflects on observation and presence in a different way
Unless otherwise credited, all photography and written content are original works by Foodie Goes Travel.
