Found pressed between pages 17 and 18 of Dylan’s first nature journal, written in careful cursive on lined paper that smells faintly of lavender and old books

My sweet Dylan,

If you’re reading this, then I’ve moved on to whatever comes next. You’ve probably been carrying this journal around for months, maybe years, before finding this note. That’s okay, sweetie. Things reveal themselves when we’re ready to see them.

I’ve been watching you notice things since you were small enough to fit in my lap while we sketched birds together. The way you’d stop mid-sentence to observe how sunlight moved through leaves. How you’d ask questions nobody else thought to ask: “Why do the ants always know where to go?” “What are the trees saying to each other?” “How does the monarch know it’s time to leave?”

Most people thought you were daydreaming. I knew better. You were paying attention to the original language, the one written in root systems, hibernation, animal migrations and the way seasons bring the same wonders that aways seem brand new.

Here’s what I need you to know: You’re not weird. You’re not too much. You’re not behind. You’ve been reading the instruction manual everyone else forgot existed.

The poncho I made for you, every stitch holds a story we shared. Every knot represents an afternoon we spent observing, wondering, asking questions without needing immediate answers. When you wear it, remember that you come from a long line of noticers. We’re the ones who remember that the universe speaks in patterns, not announcements.

There will be days when you feel lost. When the family doesn’t understand. When other kids make you feel strange for caring about mushroom networks and coral reef dynamics. On those days, put on the poncho, open your notebook, and write down what you see. Not what you’re supposed to see. Not what would make others comfortable. Just what is.

The truth is always simpler than the lies. If something feels complicated beyond reason, someone’s probably making it complicated on purpose. Trust your observations. Trust what cooperates naturally. Trust that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, even when, especially when, it doesn’t feel that way.

Keep noticing. Keep writing. Keep asking why the beehive thrives and families struggle. Those observations matter more than you know.

I won’t be there to see what you become, but I already know: you’ll be exactly yourself, which is all anyone ever needs to be.

The universe has been trying to tell everyone something important for a very long time. I have a feeling you’re someone who will finally help people remember how to listen.

All my love, through every dimension,

Grans

P.S. If anyone ever tells you that noticing patterns in nature and focusing on the things you so beautifully do is ‘just a phase,’ remind them that gravity is a pattern in nature and science never suggested we ignore that one.