n some semi-cloudy, pleasant day in freshman fall, my future blockmates and I made plans to take a weekend to explore the world beyond Harvard. We were hoping to find a beautiful, not-too-crowded park nearby where we could relax and pass an afternoon or two with leisurely reading. The closest we’ve come has been working on problem sets in the Boston Common.

Oh, lovely autumn. It is rather easy to miss the natural beauty on Harvard’s campus and in the area nearby when you have a constant stream of assignments and extracurricular meetings. But as I was walking back to the Quad from an ill-fated venture to study in Lamont Café—never be deceived that you will accomplish anything significant in Lamont Café—I noticed clumps of crushed berries on my path. They had fallen from the trees lining the walkway. I had never noticed these trees before, and I wondered how many other students had passed that way without noticing them either.

From chatting with friends and classmates, it seems that the only thing we all notice each fall—aside from the workload—is the changing weather. Ever-dipping temperatures necessitate sweaters long before my Californian friends have learned what they are, and stock complaints about “Boston weather” enter daily conversation. The weather affects our lives. The pretty trees? Not as much, unless you happen to become a victim of an acorn shower while walking by Langdell Library. (I now have a vendetta against a certain squirrel.)

Ever-dipping temperatures necessitate sweaters long before my Californian friends have learned what they are, and stock complaints about “Boston weather” enter daily conversation. The weather affects our lives. Absent Thoreauvian musings about the meaning of nature to Man and to Society, I have become quite interested in the multitude of Nature’s dainties that escape my attention every day. First, I noticed the walkway trees with bright red berries. (To eat or not to eat?) Then I saw the apple trees on the Quad lawn. Now I’m staring at a rather ordinary tree outside the Science Center. It is a young tree with light green leaves fading into their fall dress, but it is a tree nonetheless—and I hadn’t noticed it before.

What did I notice the first day they appeared? The chairs. Still, as convenient and relaxing as they are, they are not nearly as marvelous as the subtle changes that Nature effects in these autumn days. It should be difficult to miss something as relatively permanent as a tree; after all, it will be there tomorrow, right next to the Science Center. Yet I suspect that most of us find it difficult to notice all of the wondrous changes that happen before our eyes. When I lived in Thayer freshman year, my sleepy eyes could not register the signs of the season. I woke up at 9:02 and arrived at class promptly at 9:07, so I didn’t even have time to think about them. I now have no more time than I did then, but I feel compelled to see what I did not.

Yet I suspect that most of us find it difficult to notice all of the wondrous changes that happen before our eyes. I doubt that I will find time soon to look for that park, but perhaps places closer to home merit some attention. Five minutes here, fifteen there… Forget productivity; when my mind finally admits the beauty before my eyes, it’s playtime. I recall being so curious about everything once. I was three or four years old, and simple things like toasters were captivating diversions simply because I didn’t know everything about them. Weren’t we all so curious around that age?

Maybe you’ll take these musings to heart and take a few minutes to enjoy the outside. In the Yard, you might discover some secret nook where the leaves are pointed just so, or you might find a sturdy tree that looks ideal for climbing someday. Maybe you’ll think that I’ve become a hippie. Whatever. At some point, you may find it relaxing and awe-inspiring to examine something you never noticed. But you don’t have time right now. Put on your sweater and get back to work—that problem set was due at 1 PM.

Listen: Autumn – Paolo Nutini

This piece is a part of Featurettes on Noice, in which writers submit personal essays and lengthier,  featuresque articles. Submit your guest Featurette today at harvardvoice@gmail.com.