When I was younger and a budding photography enthusiast, my mum would often say, “Turn around and look up.”
We’d be stood somewhere beautiful – a beach at golden hour, a ruined abbey, a woodland path – and I’d be scrunched up behind the camera, trying to capture the shot. The one everyone else was taking. The one that looked right. The one that matched the postcards.
But she’d nudge me and say it again: “Turn around. Look up.”
And almost every time, there was something there I’d missed – the light hitting the back of a wave, a bird cutting through the sky, some imposing architecture, sometimes even nothing at all. But always something (even the nothing) worth taking a photo of. Something worth noticing.
At the time, it wasn’t always welcome advice. I wanted the photo everyone else was taking. But as I grew – as I stopped learning photography and started being a photographer – I realised it was the best advice I’d ever been given. Now it’s almost habit: to find what everyone else is photographing, then turn around and look up.
Turn around. Look up. It’s become more than a photography tip. It’s become a way of seeing the world.
Curiosity wakes us up. It makes us ask questions, reach further, look beneath the surface. But being attentive is what helps us stay awake – noticing what’s here, not just what might be.
To be attentive isn’t to have attentiveness, as if it’s a personality trait some people are born with. It’s not about being naturally observant, quiet, or reflective. It’s not a skill you either have or don’t.
Being attentive is an active posture. A choice to live present to the moment you’re in. It’s a way of holding space for what already is, rather than hurrying on to what’s next.
And it’s something every one of us can practise – whether we’re contemplative by nature or constantly in motion. Because this isn’t about personality; it’s about presence.
If God really is renewing all things – not one day far away, but here and now in ordinary life – then the question isn’t when He’ll act, but whether we’ll notice. I’ve started to believe that God is always doing new things: small shifts, quiet renewals, subtle beginnings. They rarely shout for attention. They often unfold in silence, through the overlooked details of an ordinary day.
To be attentive isn’t about doing more or trying harder. It’s about being awake – receptive rather than reactive, grounded rather than hurried. It’s learning to spot the small mercies that arrive as interruptions, the sacred moments hidden in routine.
Attentiveness is really an act of trust – believing that this moment, right now, might already be full of God’s presence, even when it doesn’t look or feel like it.
Creation hums with that truth: tides rise and fall, leaves turn, breath returns. Newness is happening all around us. Attentiveness is simply learning to see it.
When I think back to those moments with my mum, what stands out isn’t the photographs I took, but the ones I almost missed. The beauty that appeared only when I turned around. That’s what attentiveness does – it re-orients us. It invites us to pause long enough to glimpse what God is already doing, often just outside the frame we were focused on.
It’s a small act of surrender, really. To admit that my view isn’t the whole picture. That perhaps God is composing something larger, quieter, more intricate than I can grasp.
In a world that rewards constant motion, choosing to pay attention can feel counter-cultural. Yet this is where freedom begins – not in trying to control every detail, but in trusting that grace is at work even when I’m not looking.
But sometimes I am lucky to see glimpses of it.
I see glimpses of it when I walk by the sea and the light breaks through the clouds – just for a moment, but enough to remind me that something bigger is at work. The waves keep their rhythm, the air shifts, and I find myself quietly watching.
I see it when a conversation lingers longer than planned and suddenly becomes real, when small talk turns to honesty, and we both realise we’re being seen, not just heard.
I see it when I pause instead of rushing on, when I actually notice what’s in front of me. A leaf caught in sunlight. The sound of laughter from another room. The warmth of a cup in my hands.
And I see it when I catch myself breathing again – when the noise fades and the world feels spacious for a moment. It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough to remember that being alive is itself a quiet gift.
Small moments, but full of life. Evidence that the Spirit is still moving, quietly renewing, patiently creating.
Being attentive doesn’t mean standing still or staying silent. It’s an active way of being awake, grounded, responsive. The opposite of passive. The opposite of numb.
It’s not striving, but it is alert – a kind of active stillness. It asks us to inhabit the present fully, to give our attention without needing to control the outcome. To look again, to look deeper, to look up.
And it’s for everyone. Whether we’re raising children, leading teams, making meals, or sitting in silence, we all have the capacity to be attentive – because it’s not about our wiring, it’s about our willingness.
If curiosity makes us explorers, then being attentive makes us pilgrims. The explorer wants to see what’s out there. The pilgrim learns to find God right here. And together, they teach us how to live – open to mystery, yet grounded in the moment.
As we move through these values, we’ll see that each one leans on the others. None of them stand alone, because life with God isn’t a checklist of virtues – it’s a rhythm of grace.
But, maybe that’s the invitation this week:
To turn around.
To look up.
To see what’s already here.
There’s beauty waiting in the places we’ve stopped expecting it. There’s renewal happening in the corners we’ve forgotten to notice.
God is already doing a new thing – not someday, but today. Not elsewhere, but here. All we have to do is see it.
Josh | A Curious Follower
A Curious Follower isn’t about shouting louder. It’s about noticing together – choosing to be attentive to the ways change, hope, and connection take root in ordinary life.
If you’d like to walk that journey with me, you’re welcome to subscribe – but even more than that, you’re welcome to join in the wondering.
Let’s keep paying attention. Let’s keep noticing. Let’s keep learning how to see what’s already here.