Adventure, the eminent ecologist Archie Carr once said, is a state of mind.

As was inevitably the case about so many things Dr. Carr predicted, especially regarding the fate of his beloved Florida, he was right. Adventure is a journey that can easily be taken unencumbered by suitcases, maps or steely-nerved guides. The only truly indispensable accessory is curiosity.

But that brings me to a dilemma. For although I normally would never quibble with anything Archie Carr said or did — because to my mind he is one of the greatest citizens Florida has ever known, and the loss of his eloquent voice one of our greatest misfortunes — he did write something that I must refute. That is his belief that "any venture beyond the subdivisions will turn up good things to see."

I take exception to that statement because I live in a subdivision, one of the oldest and nowadays most urban in Tampa, that of Seminole Heights. And I have discovered to my endless fascination that even in these crowded conditions, there are remnants of the Florida I knew and loved as a child growing up in the spacious, sinkhole pocked country surrounding Gainesville. Here, in my own backyard, just a cartwheel away from the interminably buzzing interstate and the glass towers of downtown, I have found many good things to see. From my favorite perch on the sofa in the family room, I have an unobtrusive window on a world far removed in context, if not in time, from traffic jams, missed deadlines and snagged panty hose. I can see a scarlet red male cardinal busily traveling back and forth to my feeder, selecting the plumpest sunflower seeds to take to an aloof but irresistible khaki-coated female up in the elm tree. She remains regally, disdainfully disinterested while nevertheless politely accepting the free meal provided by the diligent male, who is wearing out his wings to prove to her what a good provider he will be for her and the offspring they might raise together.

I can see the dragonflies hovering over the small fish pond a friend helped me build several summers ago. No sooner had we filled the pond with water than the dragonflies descended on it in search of unsuspecting prey, patrolling the arrowhead and pickerel weed planted in pots along the pond like a ghostly squadron of fighter pilots. Most of these powerful aviators are common green darners, a name that harkens back to the days when dragonflies were known as "devil's darning needles" for their purported ability to stitch together the lips of ill-behaved children while they slept. Ironically, the male green darner is a rather striking shade of blue, further clouding the issue. How did these azure marauders find this tiny oasis so quickly? Or the leopard frogs looking for love on a rainy summer morning?

I can see winged kaleidoscopes of color flit past the window, as zebra longwings, Gulf fritillaries and monarch butterflies ply their trade among the lantana, red pentas and coral honeysuckle vines that thrive in my yard. I am in awe of the monarchs — those delicate, long-distance voyagers whose intercontinental treks across the Gulf of Mexico to sunnier winter refuges defy all reason. Milkweed is the only plant these discerning creatures will entrust with their future generations, and I have provided as much of these natural incubators as I can. Just a few weeks ago, we kept a daily vigil for a monarch caterpillar that crawled onto our deck, attached to the side of our house and transformed into a beautiful gold-rimmed chrysalis. For two weeks, we checked on the butterfly-to-be constantly, hovering like anxious grandparents in a maternity ward. We watched with delight as the butterfly finally emerged, then despair as the beautiful creature, still wet and uncoordinated, fell from its perch on the side of our house, breaking a wing and dying within an hour. But we remain grateful that we were fortunate enough to witness its remarkable life cycle at all.

I am constantly amazed and awed by the tenacity with which nature hangs on, even in the most unlikely places, even against the most staggering odds. And I am humbled by the extraordinary heroism of it all — the births and deaths, the breeding and blooming. In short, the constant little dramas of life itself.

Most of us who live in Florida, myself included, were not born here. Fewer still have even the vaguest understanding of how special this place is, or have bothered to hit the pause button on our fast-forward lives long enough to admire a vast cypress skimmed skyline, take a walk through a shady oak hammock, or explore the fertile, knee-deep ooze of a mangrove swamp.

But perhaps it is not necessary for everyone to see those things to appreciate them. Maybe, just becoming aware of what's going on outside our own windows on the world is enough to sow the seeds of passion that can preserve all that remains.

I believe conservation begins at home, with our own small contributions, observations and discoveries. I think Archie would approve.

Writer Nanette Holland is the public outreach coordinator for the Tampa Bay Estuary Program.