Can you put your finger on one or two observations of nature that have totally transformed the way you look at the world? Was there a time you suddenly noticed, for example, how vulnerable small creatures are and how many forces are at work against their welfare?

Were you instantly awestruck with thoughts of how amazing it is that a small animal may grow to maturity amid the adversity of this existence? Has that observation from then on caused you to revere small critters, to fuss over and protect them as though their interaction with you may be the determining factor in whether they survive in this life?

While walking along the ledges of the Penobscot River seven or eight years ago, I had one such experience. In a crevice of that sheer rock, a hearty wildflower sprung forth, contrasting beautiful, lively bright green hues and a brilliant yellow blossom against lifeless gray rock. How could this be, I thought? From where was the plant acquiring nutrients substantive enough to reproduce?

That which may seem an ordinary sight to some was quite extraordinary at that moment.

Suddenly I started seeing plants growing in impossibly difficult places. Along the 200-year-old rambling stone walls that line the fields of my family’s farm, tiny oak seedlings sprouted. More than 6 inches tall and growing among nothing but a pile of field stone, the roots of the plants twisted and turned, as if painfully searching for soil in which to root.

Walking through the woods, I saw the wings of a maple seed, wedged in a fold of the shaggy bark of a nearby hornbeam tree. Out from under the bark sprouted two seed leaves and a delicate, perfect little true leaf.

On the face of the brick farmhouse, a sunflower seedling, dropped, perhaps, by a bird, grew in a tiny crevice in the mortar. Clinging to the vertical surface, the sunflower seedling reached skyward, its stem bent and bowed as a result of its unnatural habitat.

At each sighting, I felt the urge to look more closely at the plant. Truthfully, I didn’t want to just look at it. I wanted to pull it up, unearth it from its delicate hold on life and carefully examine its parts in the name of scientific exploration, in the name of sheer curiosity. I wanted to feed my fingers the sensation of those life-tested roots, on the twisted, unnatural stems, on the lusty tender leaves. I wanted to understand its life by touching the plant, and, of course, by doing so, I would have ended that life, that fragile grip.

It is probably no great moral crime to cast away the life of one or two plants in the name of scientific exploration, but at the sight of each of these plants, I managed to keep my hands to myself, to say “Why do that? Just let it be.” While curiosity has often got the best of me, I have to say, silent, unhanded observation – allowing these plants their tender hold on life – has likely taught me as much as would pulling them apart in exploration.

Curiosity does get the better of us, does it not? I’ve known many gardeners who dig their seed potatoes or pea seeds up a week after planting them in spring because they just have to know if there’s anything going on there under the soil. When we see those thick white eyes poking through the dark soil, we rejoice. When the pale green leaves of the pea poke through, we wonder if our plants will be the first to yield plump, sweet rewards.

Think of how much we wouldn’t know if we weren’t curious, if we didn’t explore. Yet, exploration with conscience, with honest thought and reflection is essential.

There is a force in nature that continually gives birth. Where there is a glimmer of hope that life can exist, nature attempts to fill the space by giving birth to an organism. In the garden, that empty space is often filled with weeds, which offer a continual battle to those who tend the area. We are consciously aware of and simultaneously working with and against that force of life. In our greater landscape, we observe that the gift of birth is granted in strange and unexpected places.

As the natural world goes into its rest for the season, opportunity for observing the forces of life in motion may seem slim. Yet, keep a keen eye tuned to the goings-on outside your window. Stay alert, curious and ready for transformation. Small miracles await your notice.

Diana George Chapin is the NEWS garden columnist. Send horticulture questions to Gardening Questions, 512 North Ridge Road, Montville 04941 or e-mail dianagc@midcoast.com. Selected questions will be answered in future columns. Include name, address and telephone number.