Tag: senses

What Did I Really See Today?

“Many of us have made our world so familiar that we do not see it anymore. An interesting question to ask yourself at night is, ‘What did I really see this day?'”

John O’Donohue, “Anam Cara”

This is an observation John O’Donohue makes and a question he asks in the second section of his book, “Anam Cara.” The section is called “Toward a Spirituality of the Senses,” and it delves into how our senses are our gateways into the world around us.

This may seem like a no-brainer, but there has been a long, human-induced rift between the spirit and the senses. We often hear that we shouldn’t trust things of or from the body, and our senses arise from these bodies we inhabit.

O’Donohue, in his heaving together of the Celtic and Christian (and in what we would do well to bring back as a more mainstream way of seeing in Christianity), points out that our bodies and our senses are gifts from God.

“Your body is your clay home; your body is the only home you have in this universe. It is in and through your body that your soul becomes visible and real for you. Your body is the home of your soul on earth.”

He goes on to say that, “the body is a sacrament. The old traditional definition of sacrament captures this beautifully. A sacrament is a visible sign of invisible grace.”

In this lifetime, our bodies are how we experience the world, how we encounter each other, and even how we come to know God. They are a central part of our earthly experience. We are meant to use, honor, and be grateful for our bodies and our senses in and of themselves and as a means for coming to know and draw closer to God.

And the senses:

“The senses are our bridges to the world. Human skin is porous; the world flows through you. Your senses are large pores that let the world in.”

And O’Donohue pushes us a bit further: “A renewal, a complete transfiguration of your life, can come through attention to your senses. Your senses are the guides to take you deep into the inner world of your heart.”

Let’s think about this. We’re on the Eastern Shore–think about pulling a summer tomato off the vine, washing it, cutting it up and eating it–whether in a salad, as part of a dish, or sliced with salt, pepper, and mayonnaise on a plate.

Think about the smell of honeysuckle, or freshly cut grass, or fragrant flowers in a garden. Remember what it feels like to breathe in deeply and smile. Or even the wetness of tears running down your cheek, for any number of different reasons. Or the colors in the sky at sunrise or sunset. Or the sound of the voice of someone you love. The sound of contagious laughter.

If we pay attention to our senses, we can have a deeper, richer experience of life.

Remembering that “Anam Cara” translates as “soul friend,” we are going to keep coming back to the phenomenon of friendship and relationship. And O’Donohue, in his lyrical exploration of friendship, loves mic drop phrases and sentences, the kind that stop you reading right where you are and make you think.

So when he starts us off in the section by talking about the face, he goes big:

“In the human face, the anonymity of the universe becomes intimate…

The human face is the subtle, yet visual autobiography of each person…

The face reveals the soul, it is where the divinity of the inner life finds an echo and an image. When you behold someone’s face, you are gazing deeply into that person’s life.”

Imagine if we kept this in mind when we meet someone for the first time. Or when we see a close friend, or anyone. What if we gave ourselves a chance to be present with someone when we come face to face?

A couple of photographs that show faces and maybe a glimpse as to what might be behind them.

O’Donohue deepens what these encounters mean when he explores what is behind our faces: “at a deeper level, each person is the custodian of a completely private, individual world.” And we are.

So let’s think about what that means when a friend comes to your house:

“When people come to visit your home, they come bodily. They bring all of their inner worlds, experiences, and memories into your house through the vehicle of their bodies. While they are visiting you, their lives are not elsewhere; they are totally there with you…”

This is not my default way of thinking. But maybe it should be more often. If we are mindful that everyone has these infinite inner worlds inside them, which we carry around with us, maybe when we encounter someone, what can so easily seem like a throw-away moment–‘hey, what’s up, how’s it going?’–can lead us to deeper connection. Maybe we wouldn’t be on our phones, thinking about the laundry, or what we have going on tomorrow. Maybe we could be completely in the moment, realizing the sacredness of time with a friend.

What did I really see today? Did I pay attention to the intimate details around me in the landscape? When I talked to, or had dinner with my daughters, was I fully present, was I actually there? When I saw a friend, did I really see them?

O’Donohue points out that the “eyes” or what he calls the style of vision we bring to the table (life) determine what and how we see things. This is something any of us could do well to remember:

“To the fearful eye, all is threatening…

To the greedy eye, everything can be possessed…

To the judgmental eye, everything is closed in definitive frames…

To the resentful eye, everything is begrudged…

To the indifferent eye, nothing calls or awakens…

To the interior eye, everyone else is greater…

To the loving eye, everything is real… If we could look at the world in a loving way, then the world would rise up before us full of invitation, possibility, and depth. The loving eye can even coax pain, hurt, and violence toward transfiguration and renewal.”

I need to be careful of so many of those. I hope that I can remember, be mindful of, and look through the loving eye.

Our “Anam Cara” classes meet on Monday evening, one group on Zoom earlier, and then a larger group in person in the Parish Hall of Christ Church Easton. Discussion goes from the cosmic to the everyday, from the existential to the personal (when is the existential not personal, really?). And one of the questions we return to is, “what do I do with this?” In other words, how do we fold it into our lives? Into our everyday encounters?

Last evening, Rev. Susie Leight synthesized so much of this with another pull from O’Donohue. Words, quote, and photo from Susie:

Questions to consider at the end of the day, try answering from a place of honesty, not judgment. Offer your answers up to God and see where the Holy Spirit leads…

“What dreams did I create last night? Where did my eyes linger today? Where was I blind? Where was I hurt without anyone noticing? What did I learn today? What did I read? What new thoughts visited me? What differences did I notice in those closest to me? Whom did I neglect? Where did I neglect myself? What did I begin today that might endure? How were my conversations? What did I do today for the poor and the excluded? Did I remember the dead today? Where could I have exposed myself to the risk of something different? Where did I allow myself to receive love? With whom today did I feel most myself? What reached me today? How deep did it imprint? Who saw me today? What visitations had I from the past and from the future? What did I avoid today? From the evidence why was I given this day?”

— “At The End Of The Day: A Mirror Of Questions,” by John O’Donohue

Making Minutes into Moments

“To take a minute and make it a moment is a holy thing,” Fr. Bill Ortt said in a sermon at Christ Church Easton earlier this month. It’s a message he’s been working to get across for a good part of the year. Minutes pass endlessly, but how many of them become moments for us? How many feel like time stops or alters and they become touchstone experiences, ingrained memories, part of our DNA.

I’ve been reading Tim Kreider‘s book of essays, “We Learn Nothing.” In the incredible essay, “The Czar’s Daughter,” he talks about the life, stories, death, and memories of a friend they called Skelly. Kreider remembers he and Skelly driving to the author’s cabin after a blizzard, where a grove of bamboo had bent under the weight of the snow, forming an archway.

“We walked down through that icy arcade tugging on each bamboo tree until we’d shaken loose enough weight that it would spring back up into the air, flinging its load of snow glittering fifty feet in the sky. It was so beautiful, and so much fun, that we both got giddy, laughing like kids on a snow day. Only he and I were there in that moment; now he’s gone. If you do not know someone by sharing such a memory, then you cannot ever know anyone at all. If that moment was not true, then nothing is.”

That’s a moment. I know those snow moments. Reading that took me back to the winter of 1995-96, snow blasting Oxford in a time where everyone just opted to stay home and maybe walk through the snow down to Schooner’s Llanding to sit by the fire, day drink, and eat seafood chowder out of bread bowls. But my memory, my moment, was walking through town and all the way out to the cemetery, in the middle of the night, with a long-time friend, lost in conversation, laughter, memories, and occasional deep thought, completely unaware of the cold or the time passing. I can’t recall a single thing that was said, but the moment is as strong as if it happened yesterday.

Another snow moment (snowment?) happened in December 2009 (pictured above), when we got snow dumped on us like crazy and Anna and I went exploring Easton, taking in the town in an almost white-out. We thought we’d get out and hit the playground at Idlewild Park, but the wind was whipping and snow was pelting our eyes so we stopped and opted for a photo, before continuing our exploring. It’s a photo that stands out in my mind–one I will always picture when thinking of Anna, and the experience of driving through town in the snow stands as a daddy-daughter moment.

What is it that helps create those moments for us? Mindfulness or awareness would be one thing. Being able to look around and take things in and not miss what’s going on around us. Most of us don’t count sunrises. They happen every morning–nothing momentous, right? But what if you make the time to take a few breaths and let the taste of coffee linger on your tongue while you watch the horizon. Or better yet, on a morning that you are blown away by the colors, throw your arms up and drink in the experience fully. Moments are there to be made.

In his book, “The Experience of Place,” Tony Hiss talks about simultaneous perception. He says there is our everyday perception, which allows us drive to places, accomplish tasks, times where we aren’t really dialed in to what’s going on around us. Hiss says that shifting to simultaneous perception:

“let’s me gently focus my attention and allows a more general awareness of a great many things at once: sights, sounds, smells, and sensations of touch and balance, as well as thoughts and feelings. When this kind of general awareness occurs, I feel relaxed and alert at the same time… I notice a sort of unhurried feeling–a feeling that there’s enough time to savor all the sights and sounds and other sensations coming in.”

Maybe we’ve all had those experiences, where we become keenly aware of a smell, and sound, and sight–maybe it’s spurred from tasting something off the grill outside, or ice cream near the river. A time when all of our senses are engaged and time seems to move differently. Mindfulness has a way of helping us be fully in the moment. Maybe being in the moment helps us create more moments?

When I think of the different moments I can call up from memory–some recent, some as far back as I can remember: I can remember my grandmother (my dad’s mother) who died before I turned five, she used to pretend to be the Terrible Tickler from a Sesame Street book we would read together, I must have been two or three–and I can see her, remember her, lovingly and jokingly coming to greet me, even though I can’t picture what her face looked like. Maybe the moments that are etched into our memories, that have become a part of who we are; maybe those moments are like lights in our minds, and as we look back on them, as we recall them, call them up, maybe those moments help light our way, through the everyday, to the place where we can look to, and be more open to, experiencing moments, making minutes into moments for today.