A reflection from Christie Bernklau Halvor:
This past summer, I practiced paying attention in a very small way. Most days I paused somewhere in the garden. Paused and watched. Paused and listened. Paused and felt. No weed pulling. No list making. Sometimes it was only for five minutes. It was humbling to realize how hard it could be to follow through on that small commitment.
Yet those daily moments of pausing and paying attention shifted things inside of me as I came to know more intimately this little ecosystem of which I am a part. I learned that of all the nectar options in the garden, nothing tempts the bees like oregano. I’d never noticed before just how many tiny flowers bloom on a single oregano plant.
I learned that if I sit still and keep my hands tucked close to my body, the youngest chickens will jump up and take a nap on my lap. I’d never tried that with their older sisters. I learned that the praying mantis can turn its head 180 degrees and stare you down like nobody’s business.
I met the praying mantis one morning as I overzealously watered a bed of purple salvia and was startled to realize I’d been looking right past it impressively camouflaged on one of the stems. As I leaned in closer, I realized it was turning its head and looking over its shoulder at me. (Turns out the praying mantis is the only insect known to be able to do this.) Those eyes! I don’t know how long we both held still, staring at one another. It was a simple, profound, timeless moment.
This may have been the first time I’d seen a praying mantis in the garden, but it felt like the praying mantis already knew me – after all, I had apparently been drowning its habitat without awareness most mornings. We watched one another for a long time. My breathing slowed. My back relaxed as I became aware of the sun’s gentle morning heat. A smile grew across my face.
Eventually, I grew restless. My mind started to remember the tasks before me, and I decided to move on. I’m confident the praying mantis would have held still with me much longer.
I got up and began watering more gently, closer to the roots, as I did each morning after – hoping the praying mantis would emerge again. And most mornings, it did. It emerged in a way I couldn’t track. A blessing for the day. An expansion of my understanding of neighbor and community.