EastCoast NatureNetwork

Submitted by A.N.

Life in Dublin seems to move faster with each passing year; louder, busier, and more crowded than ever. The city hums with noise and movement, buses sighing along the streets, the chatter of commuters, and the constant tug of deadlines and digital notifications. In the rush of city living, we’ve grown used to rushing, to glancing past the smaller moments that quietly colour our day. A butterfly drifting past, a blackbird singing atop a lamp-post. These are not grand spectacles, yet appreciating them requires something we’ve largely forgotten: attention, stillness, and the willingness to pause.

When I first moved to Dublin, I didn’t think much about nature. Growing up in the countryside, I had taken it for granted, the constant green, the distant mountains, the soft chorus of birds and wind that filled the background of every day. It wasn’t until I left that I realised how much those quiet sounds had held me. The city’s sharp edges and restless energy made me aware of the loss before I began to notice what remained.

So now, I look for it. Every day, I try to find the life that persists between the cracks; in the moss that climbs along stone, in the ivy threading its way up railings, in the birds that have learned to sing above the traffic. I’ve come to think of it as a small act of restoration, a daily practice of slowing down, letting the city reveal its softer pulse, and really noticing what’s around me.

There are moments when I stop mid-conversation or in the middle of a walk to watch something small; the sun slipping through a gap in the clouds, a wasp lazily humming among late-summer flowers, a coal tit darting between branches, even the way leaves move and sound in the breeze. My friends often find it odd. They’ll look at me, puzzled, wondering what could be so fascinating about a patch of green or a flicker of wings. Sometimes they laugh, but I invite them to watch with me. I tell them to look closer. To really see. Between that pause and their realisation, there’s a shift; something quiet but profound. Together we watch a ladybird make its slow climb along a wall, its tiny red shell glinting against the grey stone. For a moment, in that simple act of attention, the noise of the world fades, and all that remains is stillness.

Learning to notice again has brought with it a sense of peace, a gentle joy that asks for nothing but awareness. To notice is to reconnect, not only with nature, but with the parts of ourselves that the rush of daily life has pushed aside. The city may not have the vastness of the countryside, but it breathes in its own way. We just have to listen. Dublin is alive in ways that don’t ask for our attention but reward it deeply when given. Nature reminds us that it’s still here, waiting for us to slow down long enough to see it. In learning to notice again, we rediscover what it means to belong to the living world, even here, in the heart of the city.

The more we notice, the more we understand that nature is not something separate from us, or from the city. It is woven into every space we inhabit; growing, adapting, persisting. When we take the time to see it, we create space for care, and that care becomes action. Noticing leads to appreciation, and appreciation to protection. It’s a small but vital exchange: by giving our attention to the living world, we help it to thrive, and in turn, it helps us to do the same. Because every patch of moss, every  bird call, every wildflower breaking through concrete even when we didn’t want it to, is a reminder that life persists. In recognising nature’s quiet presence, we ensure its future, and, in doing so, our own.