Though I may not always have thought of myself as an artist, I think I have always thought of myself as someone who nature journaled – even if I didn’t name it in that way.
Pencil Miles
One of my earliest memories of writing was in a small journal, white with little pink flowers, about my observations. I was only 5 or 6 at the time, struggled with spelling, and depicted what I was seeing in very large drawings without much detail. But what those pages contained where sketches and noticings about the plants my family and I were attempting to grow on our apartment balcony. There weren’t many specifics, but the spirit was there. I do remember even capturing some data about our plants being invaded by aphids and mites (I unfortunately am not currently green thumbed- but aspire towards that skill).
As I grew older, I would often take a sketchbook along on trips, and capture landscapes and animals that I saw along the way, which my mom also did and would share sketches and techniques with me. She would also graciously let me use her Prismacolor pencils when we returned home when my crayola set didn’t quite have the right shade. Though I had no concept of the idea, by glancing through the pages, one could see the impact of what John Muir Laws and the nature journaling community refers to as pencil miles. Simply put, the more we draw, the more we learn and improve in our skill.
Now by no means is that a linear process… Sometimes a drawing just doesn’t quite turn out the way we imagined. But that doesn’t mean that something was not gained in the process. While working recently on a series of drawings of fungi I have seen in my neighborhood, I found myself far too heavy handed with my micron pen. But I did layer the shades of yellow on the witch’s hat mushroom well, even if the gills were now too bold. The experience also led me to the knowledge that micron pens came in other colors – offering the option to experiment more in the future.
Joy and Wonder
While I appreciate that nature journaling gives me a way of tracking my progress as an artist, that is not the main reason I have found for engaging in the practice. Like many in my suburban neighborhood, before the pandemic struck, I was fairly active outside (I walked half marathons for fun several times a year), but typically would go outdoors, pop in my headphones, and rock out to music. The goal was often to go further and faster than I had done previously.
However, when I suddenly found my school shut down and myself and others in front of a screen for hours on end, my goals for being outdoors shifted in response. I wanted a break from my phone, my screen, and definitely from my headphones which at times caused my ears to ache. And with the shift, my experience of walks in my neighborhood changed dramatically.
I was present…
Suddenly, I started to notice that there weren’t just Mallards and Canada Geese in the wetlands. There were pintails, northern shovelers, gadwalls, and mergansers. I noticed the nutria kits scurrying into the reeds along the edge of the water while their parents stood guard. Without my music blasting, I began to recognize the calls of birds, to be able to track them using multiple senses. I was able to enjoy and appreciate the beauty of wind rustling through the cottonwoods, the tree frogs croaking on a rainy day, or the gentle tapping of nuthatches in the woods.
I was able to notice the shifting colors through the year. Not just from summer to fall – when the veins of the leaves began to be traced with yellow and orange and red, some changing from the center and others from their edges. I began to see subtle shades of brown and pink and gold that indicated mushrooms, along with the changes in the soil before they emerged. The blooming of flowers that I recognized and others that I didn’t.
I began to notice all of the different shapes. That even on the same plant, there was variety in leaf shape or bark structure. I noticed where the birds would often hang out or where the mosses and lichens grow (it’s not on only one side of the tree). Out in nature I felt as though I could breathe. That these walks were no longer about rushing through to get to the next activity, but to take my time and see what nature would share that day.
These experiences inspired my art – challenging me to better capture what I was noticing, wondering, and reminded of. It brought out the curious scientist in me – collecting data about where the bullfrogs were, where a specific flower bloomed, and estimations of tree height and size. My journal became as important to me as my camera, though I still often journaled at home rather than in the wild.
It also led me to seek out community and learning opportunities. If you’ve ever had an interest in nature journaling, I highly recommend the Wild Wonder conferences. I was able to attend both the Nature Journaling for Educators and Wild Wonder conferences this year. And for those who may not be able to attend such events live – due to work or life – they offer digital access as well, which I found helpful. There is also a wonderful and supportive community on Facebook called The Nature Journaling Club.
These are experiences that I feel are calming, joyful, and help us to connect to the wonder of the world around us. As the result of a sketch I posted on social media, I was able to connect with a local organization to hopefully continue my journey as an environmental educator. A connection which is hopefully leading towards my first nature journaling class early next year.
So now I encourage you to grab a paper, a pencil (or pen), and go outside. Take 10 minutes…or 30… or an hour, and see what captures your attention and your curiosity. Use the balance of words, pictures, and numbers that works for you. And then keep going outside. Find that place that brings you peace, where you can connect to the world around you.
Want to learn more? Check out our series on starting a nature journaling practice!
Fernheart Designs 