Learning to Remain Still

 

Fragments I

There is something curious that happens when you spend long enough in wild places.

At first, like most people, you arrive with expectation. You hope to see something. You look constantly toward the horizon, scanning the landscape for movement, for activity, for that moment of discovery that justifies the journey.

But nature rarely works on our timetable.

Over time I have learned that finding what you seek is not always about searching harder. More often, it requires the exact opposite.

It requires stillness.

Working on my recent encounters with Hartmann’s Mountain Zebra has reminded me of this lesson repeatedly. In the harsh and often unforgiving environment in which they survive, nothing happens quickly. Water is never assumed. Shelter is scarce. Movement is deliberate. Energy is conserved.

And so, in order to truly observe them, one has to begin surrendering one’s own sense of urgency.

Waiting becomes part of the process.

I have spent long periods simply sitting quietly in the Namibian landscape, learning that patience is not merely waiting for something to happen. It is allowing the landscape to decide when it wishes to reveal itself.

And when that moment finally comes, it feels less like discovery and more like privilege.

Perhaps this is why I find myself so drawn to these animals.

Not because they are considered rare.

Not because they are dramatic.

But because they embody a kind of quiet endurance that feels increasingly important in a world that constantly demands movement, speed and immediacy.

As an artist, I have come to realise that drawing wildlife has never really been about simply recording what I see.

It is about learning to observe more honestly.

To slow down.

To pay attention.

And perhaps, every now and then, to allow the wild to remind us that not everything important reveals itself immediately.