The World's Beauty
"At some point in life the world's beauty becomes enough. You don't need to photograph, paint, or even remember it. It is enough." ~Toni Morrison, Tar Baby
Sight is our most prominent sense of the five common, sight, sound, smell, touch, and taste. Although our brain is often combining information from each of the senses, we are “sight-wired” so that what our eyes take in typically takes precedence in our awareness. Yet, even in the truth of that, we pay so little attention to what we “see” everyday. As Andy Warhol observed, “Nobody really looks at anything; it’s too hard.”
How would I set out to correct this in my own daily observations? How could I move into a way of living that convinces me the world’s beauty is enough if I am not really looking at anything?
Certainly, it is hard to see. Life is hurried and often predictable. I have a routine I stick to most days and so often I arrive somewhere or look up suddenly just to realize I have no recollection of anything that’s passed before my eyes.
And sight is fragile—according to a statistic in Gretchen Rubin’s book Life in Five Senses, more than 32 million American adults report that they are unable to see or have difficulty seeing even with glasses. Until a few years ago, I never wore glasses. Now, I have a pair of readers in every room of my house, in my car, my purse, and usually on top of my head like headband.
Given all of this, I know it’s essential to pay attention to what’s before my eyes. This week, then, I set out to both tune into noticing and to experience visual delight.
I noticed the way that after my eyes have been closed during meditation or prayer, my brain was better able to take in and truly notice what was in front of me. Same backyard out my window, yet after meditation I truly saw the way the sun cast a stream of light through the center of the trees, the shape and brilliant emerald of the trees’ leaves, the small and knobby antlers on the young buck that strolled into the scene. And I noticed how quickly my eyes adjust to change: just as my eyes settled on the deer, a cardinal fluttered onto a branch to the right. Suddenly, my eyes darted to take in the new.
On a bike ride with my son, I realized that, although he was speaking, my thoughts were somewhere else. I tuned the dial of my attention back to the moment through sight first—evening light on the river, two paddle boarders floating a moment, the thick trees leaning toward the water, my son’s confident stature, his long lashes and full cheeks. I wanted to remember this special and beautiful time without a photograph or witness. Just my senses to take it all in and honor the beauty—the sights, then the sounds and smells—so that the even if not the exact memory, the residue of it having been would be enough to know how beautiful life is.