DREAMS IN HINDSIGHT – The Magic of Imagining

This morning I was standing in our kitchen, pouring cereal into a bowl. Light streamed in through the generous windows at either end of our modest townhouse, highlighting our decor’s vibrant colors.

I picked up the remote and, from across the house, tuned the stereo to my favorite jazz station.

     There would be music, HD music, not just
     in one room, but filling the entire first level.

LINE OF SIGHT
As I’m wont to do occasionally, I stepped back mentally, lifting my attention from the fruit I was about to peel to a more universal perspective. And it suddenly became quite clear: in that moment I was living out a very specific dream I’d had some 13 years ago.
 
Back then, we lived a fine little two-bedroom home in a fine little St. Paul neighborhood. Of course, it had windows on every side, but, typically for the period, the layout was broken up into distinct rooms, limiting one’s sight lines and the flow of light through the interior.

In that house, at that time, someone working in the kitchen might have turned on a table radio, or maybe an iPod, but the stereo was like two rooms away. So, without decent, space-filling music, without a real color concept for the decorating, with all the surfaces kind of old and grimy, that kitchen seemed all but lifeless.

But I could dream…and I did. I remember standing in front of that old kitchen sink one day and imagining the home I’d someday find. I pictured a bright, open space with one living area flowing seamlessly into the next; walls painted the kinds of colors Mexicans use to such delicious effect; art enlivening every unhindered vista.

There would be music, of course, HD music, not just in one room, but filling the entire first level. I wouldn’t have to walk into a different room to turn it on; it would be right there at my fingertips.

Believe it or not, I could even smell the clean, herbal scent of the liquid hand soap I’d have in the kitchen in that ideal place.

        It’s easy to take for granted that whatever
        we want we won’t want for long.

GRATEFUL FOR GRATITUDE
Well, here I was, this erstwhile feast of imagination now spread out for real right in front of me. I love it! Not just that I’d had that moment of envisioning all those years ago, but that I remembered it now so clearly.

It’s too easy—especially for those of us fortunate enough never to have experienced much need—to simply take for granted that whatever we want we won’t want for long. Somehow, it usually just shows up.

But we should acknowledge the power of a universal consciousness—we might call it God, Creator, Great Spirit, Jehovah, Allah, Brahama…whatever—to make that happen. Privileged or not, when we earnestly put our hopes, our intentions, out there and entrust them to the Universe—and are sufficiently open to actually noticing its response—they are indeed most often fulfilled.

HAND PAN MAN – How a Little Music and Kindness Made My Day

When’s the last time you had one of those sublime little moments—a helping hand, a natural wonder, a stranger’s smile—that made you feel Wow, that made my day!?

I’ve been making a concerted effort lately to keep the door of my self-absorbed busy-ness open just a crack so occurrences like that can get in and find room in my soul.

Just this morning I was blessed with such a moment.

I’d stopped—part of my usually mindless morning routine—at my favorite coffee shop for my extra-strong latte. As I chatted with the barista, I noticed they were playing some of the most exquisite music I’ve heard in a long while. And, I thought, what a fine, life-like audio system they must have.

I asked the barista if she knew what was playing or if it was just part of a stream from Pandora or Spotify. She pointed over my left shoulder to a young man sitting and holding what looked like a two-and-a-half-foot UFO in his lap.

As he tapped his hands deftly around the top of the lens-shaped instrument, the sounds he produced had an airy, crystalline brilliance somewhat like those of Caribbean steel drums. It might have been the improvised tone sequences he played, but I also sensed something of the otherworldly mystery of Indonesian gamelan music.

        Often Travis seemed to be more stroking 
        than striking the hand pan.

As I listened, I marveled at not just the elegance of the instrument’s shape, but the deep, metallic colors on both sides, a gradient from a voluptuous aubergine (eggplant) purple to the deepest midnight blue—all with subtle fuchsia highlights. Punctuating the rounded top surface were eight round flattened areas, with deep dents of various sizes in their centers.

The affable musician introduced himself and we talked as he continued playing effortlessly. Travis Wright was eager to talk about his instrument—he called it a hand pan—it’s origin and crafting, and the music. He said the incredible colors were a product of the annealing of the steel during the piece’s forming.

Surprisingly, the hand pan—or hang—is one of the new kids on the idiophone block. (An idiophone is an instrument that produces sound by its own vibrations rather than those of strings, reeds or membranes.) It was developed in 2000 in, of all places, Switzerland.

Travis explained the unique, exotic tonal qualities of the hand pan, demonstrating how sound vibrations a tap of his fingertips creates on one part of the top move around within the instrument and draw out complementary tones from other parts. He can even create the same kind of etherial “harmonic” notes a guitarist achieves by lightly tapping a string with one finger just as she plucks it with another.

I was surprised at how light a touch it took to generate sound. Often Travis seemed to be more stroking than striking the hand pan.

I asked him if he has a CD or performs formally anywhere. Alas, he said he didn’t—yet—but steered me to some wonderful YouTube examples of other musicians’ fine hand pan playing. Here’s ONE.

There’s more information on the development and use of the hand pan HERE.

NIXED BLESSINGS – Laying Claim to Life’s Elusive Gifts

The past few years have been trying times for me. A couple of serious health problems have been taking a toll on both my body and my spirit.

When I’m down like this, I find that one of the best ways to feel better is to get out of myself and help someone else. So I enlisted as a hospice volunteer.

       Why, when she seems so lost about 
       everything else, did she sound so certain, 
       so fully present, about this?

Today I was visiting Bill, one of my patients. Though he still possesses nearly all his faculties, he lives in a facility that specializes in so-called memory care, so I’m accustomed to seeing his neighbors wandering aimlessly, misplacing what little stuff they have left, often looking quite bewildered.

Just as we’re leaving his room, one of them tottered up to me. June is a very quiet, shy woman who walks idle laps around the perimeter of the floor and often mistakes Bill’s room for her own. She rarely speaks to anyone—certainly not to me—and when she does, it’s usually just to ask for directions.

PHOTO: Imgur

Okay, I thought, maybe she’s mistaking me for a staff member or a fellow resident. So I said a casual hello, and then, just as I turned to walk away, she reached out, put her hand on my back and rubbed it sympathetically. “It’s going to be okay,” she said in a sure but gentle voice. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

That scene—the effect of June’s touch, the clarity of her gaze, the knowingness in her voice—has kept replaying in my mind all day. Was she just confused like she is about other things? Why, when she seems so lost about everything else, did she sound so certain, so fully present, about this? Could she possibly have sensed that I’ve been hurting?

    It’s as if there’s this rhythm to life. We can’t 
    always hear it because the dance hall is such 
    a cacophony of other sounds.

DEAF TO THE MUSIC
I realize now that it’s entirely up to me what the meaning of this little interaction was—and is—for me. And no matter how or why it was given, I believe it was a gift. Not only did it help me feel better; it also reminds me of how many other blessings there are in my life like this one, hiding in plain sight.

Little gifts like this come very close to us all the time—warm smiles lost in passing, inspirations not seized, narrow escapes unappreciated, coincidences rationalized away, Nature’s wonders taken for granted. It’s so easy to miss them in the muddle of agendas, expectations, worries and sheer self-indulgence that surrounds us much of the time. 

It’s as if there’s this rhythm to life. We can’t always hear it because the dance hall is such a cacophony of other sounds. We falter and stumble. But once we manage to turn the din down, even a little bit, sure enough, there it is. And, once we hear the rhythm, feel it, suddenly, miraculously, we no longer have to even think about where to place our feet, for the music is moving us.

Isn’t that the way it is with small wonders? When we allow the background noise of life to get too loud, they don't move us because we can’t hear them. Just like the simple gift June bestowed on me, it’s so easy to miss them, or at least to misinterpret them as chance or error or simply devoid of meaning.

Don’t we have the power—and I would suggest a compelling need—to give them that meaning?

POOR, RICH AND RIGHTEOUS – Top 25 Images of Cuba

Cuba is like that weird uncle no one ever sees any more. Once the life of the party—an anything-goes spree destination for well-heeled American socialites, celebrities and the mob—the exotic country just 90 miles south of Key West suddenly became persona non grata.

So close, yet so far away.

While visiting Cuba the first two weeks of November, I was struck by the obvious effects, not just of the half-century US embargo, but of the influences of other countries—especially Russia and China—stepping in as allies. Given such connections, one wonders how the communist government, though providing certain first-world benefits like free health care and education, has managed to deprive so many of its citizens, for so long, of any broader sense of prosperity.

No sooner do the airs of one lively salsa or rhumba band fade than those of another two blocks ahead rise to the ear.

But Cubans count assets other than a high standard of living as it is understood elsewhere in the world. The flavors of their diverse heritage—European, African and Indigenous—blend in a savory stew of cultural energy. A distinct pride of survivorship keeps the great Revolution on low simmer, still evident in folks' erect bearing and in defiant propaganda splashed on walls and billboards. And Cubans are nothing if not resourceful, scrimping, saving and improvising to make do with their limited resources.

ISLAND RHYTHMS
The country's lush, tropical landscapes, from jungle to beach to highland coffee plantation, are breathtakingly beautiful. There's a surprisingly strong sense, even when one is beyond sight of the ocean, of this being an island—something, I suppose, about how the air feels and smells, and how close even a distant thunderstorm seems to loom.

Even gritty La Habana Vieja, old-town Havana, though at first glance a ruin, holds its own charms. Through the structural decay shine glimpses of grander days. Some landlords have managed a bit of restoration, even if it's only a fresh coat of paint. Here and there, vibrant art delights and challenges the eye, and music is everywhere—no sooner do the airs of one lively salsa or rhumba band fade than those of another two blocks ahead rise to the ear.

While a people can hardly be characterized by a tourist's limited impressions, I found the Cubans I met on the streets and in the countryside to be friendly, welcoming, curious…and surprisingly optimistic. Most are excited about the thaw in relations with the US, looking forward to new opportunities and reunions with long-separated family members living there.

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
I can't share all the warm smiles, the welcoming handshakes, the tastes and smells, the music's beat. Those you will have to experience for yourself.* But I can offer a few of the images I captured with my camera. Of the 1,000-plus I snapped, here are my best 25.
* Keep an eye here and on my travel blog, El Viajero Contento, for my upcoming post on how you can spend a couple of amazing weeks in Cuba—legally—for less than $1,500, about a third the price charged by most tour companies.

 

 

THE HERE IN THE THERE – Choosing Where to Belong

“We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”
T.S. ELIOT

Human beings’ yearning to belong is universal, timeless. Cave people huddled ‘round a fire felt it; the regulars at Cheers felt it; even hermits, I would suggest, feel it in their own way. It is experienced by not just thinking, sentient creatures, but, in more mystical ways perhaps, by plants, rocks, water, air...in fact, by absolutely everything in the cosmos.

PHOTO: WikiMedia Commons / Happy Midnight

This is not to say that everyone and everything finds that place of belonging; all are constantly moved—often transformed—by forces and circumstances beyond their control. We human beings are unique in that we can sometimes influence those circumstances, a capacity a tree, a cloud or the moon does not possess. More importantly, we can choose where to belong.

       There is a kind of belonging that suggests 
       not so much the nucleus of one’s being as 
       a kind of centrifugal force around it.

A MORE EXPANSIVE SENSE OF PLACE
For the human animal, there are two kinds of belonging. The oldest, most primal is the inner-circle version, in which we embrace the familiar: home and family, accustomed routines and traditions. Our attention, our energy, is directed toward a nucleus of people and place. It is a comfortable place, one we love, at least in part, for the fact that it asks very little of us.

There is another kind of belonging, though. One that suggests not so much the nucleus of one’s being as a kind of centrifugal force around it. Though usually tethered to a home base, this kind of belonging yearns to spin off, propelled to new places and experiences. It moves us to experience a more expansive sense of place, one that embraces and celebrates the unfamiliar.

You could call it simply tourism, I suppose, but that would miss the point. We’ve all met those “résumé” travelers who collect passport stamps like chests-full of medals to show off at cocktail parties. These folks—the kind who settle for the two-bit tour or, worse, lock themselves into gated, all-inclusive resorts; the kind who expect things in Timbuktu to be just like they are back in Terre Haute—must be quite lonely indeed. For here they are departing their tried-and-true, inner-circle sense of belonging, only to miss the most rewarding aspects of leaving it: opening one’s heart and mind to new ways of belonging.

                I want to feel I belong—as we 
                all indeed do—to everything.

No, I see my “centrifugal” sense of belonging as a compulsion to embrace—and become embraced—by as many places and cultures as possible. Not just in my own neighborhood; not just in some small town I can drive to in a few hours; not just in our adopted second home town in Mexico. I want to feel I belong—as we all indeed do after all—to everything.

PHOTO: NASA / ESA

SEEDS OF INTENTION
Chase a sense of belonging by leaving behind all that's safe and familiar? Isn't that an oxymoron? I'll never forget the first time I understood why it made perfect sense. Sally and I were in Puerto Vallarta, Jalisco, Mexico. It was dusk. We'd decided to venture a few blocks past the nearly palpable boundary of the "tourist" area downtown.

As we walked along, dodging playing kids and sleeping street dogs, the sounds and smells of life in people's homes wafted out to us. I turned to Sally and said, "Wouldn't it be amazing if we could just walk into one of these homes and be part of their lives for an evening?"

I've had this feeling, this romantic notion of belonging to another family, another culture, many times since. And, perhaps in part because I'd planted the seeds of intention—and certainly empowered by my gaining near-fluency in Spanish—I’ve indeed been able to fulfill that desire on many occasions in my travels. Those people and places continue to feel like home to me, and will for as long as I live.

          It is about as far from belonging as a 
          picture of a tomato is from a tomato.

FROM A CONSUMPTION MENTALITY 
TO SEEING GENEROUSLY
Travel, aside from being the lifeblood of a romantic, is a consummate teacher. More than just inviting us in to new places and cultures, it asks something of us—to risk, to stretch, to learn, to feel deeply. By not only seeing, but experiencing how other human beings far away live, we learn to appreciate—or perhaps change—the way we live. It can be at the same time empowering and humbling.

That investment of oneself in new experiences and perspectives is what I call seeing generously. It takes the ever-more-prevalent notion that experience is something we merely consume, something we can simply pay for with money, and turns it around. Seeing the world from this perspective, we gladly invest in travel experiences with our time, our curiosity, our caring. One can do it in any number of ways: volunteer with a local organization; take a personal interest in a child or a family; teach; paint, photograph or write about the people and customs; learn the language.

PHOTO: Pack For a Purpose / PackForAPurpose.com

I’m afraid we’ve become a culture where, too often, our social interaction amounts to sitting at home or with friends and, instead of sharing our thoughts and feelings with the folks who are right there in front of us, pretending to connect with other people and places spoon-fed to us, virtually, by some digital device. This asks virtually nothing of us. It is about as far from belonging as a picture of a tomato is from a tomato. 

Another troubling change I’m seeing is our growing expectation of nearly instantaneous, “on-demand” results, and the illusion that we can always be in control of those results. What seeing generously teaches is that, instead of expecting to change our surroundings to suit us, we’re willing to change ourselves to suit our surroundings.

The world could be a far more vital, healthy, peaceful place if only we realize the estrangement we’re allowing these trends to inflict on us. We need to reclaim what is real. And, no matter how much everything else might change, what is real will always mean belonging—whether gathered with loved ones ‘round the fire (a real fire, not one of those HD continuous video loops of one) or reaching out to embrace, first-hand, new people and places.

     We realize who we are, and that we all       
     belong to the same family, the same place.

GET OUT THERE!
The wonderful thing about these two inward- and outward-directed senses of belonging is that you don’t have to choose. Far from taking the place of home-centered belonging, the kind of belonging-by-exploring I love so much actually reinforces it. Even when I’m lucky enough to be accepted into another culture for a while, I know very well where my real home is, and the adventure, the perspective, only makes me appreciate it all the more.

And it’s not that I want to escape; it’s that, at home, I take belonging—and everything else—for granted. That, ironically, makes me feel empty. It reminds me how much I need that incredible sense of putting myself out there, learning, seeing things in new ways through the eyes of others who, at first, may seem so utterly different from me. For it is only by opening up and reaching out that we realize who we are, and that we all, indeed, belong to the same family, the same place.

So, as much as you enjoy hanging out at home with your family and friends, make a point to get out there now and then. See generously. Open your mind, heart and spirit to new people and places. Dare to venture beyond the barriers of your assumptions. Find out what it means to embrace the unfamiliar and make it your own. Discover the here in the there.

PHOTO: Pixabay

LOST LANDSCAPES

When I converse with Nature, just as when I converse with people, perspective is everything. Close up, I can see the pores and the warts; far away, details start to blend together, and the subject becomes shape, pattern and movement.

Perhaps this is why I so appreciate a beautiful landscape. Both broad and deep in its scope, the view rolls out in a seamless progression of receding layers all the way to the horizon…and beyond. It always fills me with wonder and gratitude.

But something's been happening to our landscapes, something that's occurred in just the last generation or two. Fewer and fewer of us—most glaringly, fewer of those under thirty—seem able to find one any more. Part of it is that such unbroken stretches of unspoiled land are disappearing. If a housing development hasn't obliterated the view altogether, a highway, power line or cell phone tower stains it.

But as I so often preach, seeing is a two-way street. It doesn't have to do with just the quality of what's being looked it; it also has to do with the looker. And that we can do something about.

   These mental eyesores are about as unwelcome 
   as a frac sand mine in Eden.

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
A panorama might have all the qualities you could ever want in a vista—all those sublime strata of terrain, foliage and sky, unmarred by any trace of man's meddling. Maybe a lake or river graces the scene. If you're lucky, a tired sun pours that last, precious, liquid-gold light over hill and dale.

As ideal as it sounds, that picture can still be marred. This time, though, the defacement occurs at the other end of the exchange—in the eye of the beholder. The rude blurting of my cell phone blocks my view; cynicism slashes the canvas; concerns with time or responsibility dog-ear the corners.

Whatever the culprit, these mental eyesores are about as unwelcome as a frac sand mine in Eden.

Think of it as one's state of mind being his or her internal landscape. I see more, reflect more, learn more when that inner view spreads out all around me as if I stood atop a mountain. And anything that spoils that sensual, spiritual space ruins not just my mental outlook but my woods-and-rocks-and-waters view as well.

It all comes down to my belief that we see pretty much what we want to see.

   The view starts deep in my soul and extends, 
   simultaneously, to both earth’s horizon and  
   that of my deepest internal knowing.

To understand this in the context of my pantheistic view of the world, it helps if I see the inner and outer views as one entity, one continuous vista that starts deep in my soul and extends, simultaneously, to both earth’s horizon and that of my deepest internal knowing.

WHAT'S YOUR VIEW?
Where does your outer landscape end and your inner one begin? Are you aware of how they overlap? Can you feel your ability to appreciate the view improve when you clear your mind and spirit of distractions? How do you do that?

AND YOU? – The Two Most Important Words in Conversation

Years ago, my wife opened my eyes to a fascinating social phenomenon. We’ve come to refer to it as the “And you? factor.” It’s something that happens whenever people get together, whether they’re relating experiences, catching up on news or just engaging in small talk. It’s our measure of one person’s ability to show an interest in another, and to share, rather than monopolize, a conversation.

Like so many observations, once you witness the And you? factor for the first time, you become sensitized to it, and from that moment on you can’t miss it. In fact, as my wife and I sometimes do, you might wish you’d never noticed it in the first place. Let’s just say it will change the way you look at people and conversation.

Did so-and-so ask you anything about you? 

When we leave a meeting, a party or even some family events, one of us usually will ask the other, “Did so-and-so ask you anything about you?” At least 90 percent of the time the answer is no, so-and-so talked only about herself. “What’s more,” the account continues, “if I did manage to interject a word or two of my experiences or ideas, she simply snatched the conversation back to her own agenda.”

MANNERS OF SPEAKING
Here’s a typical example. On a recent trip to Mexico, I spent two weeks at a Spanish language school with a group of people from all over the U.S. Most of us didn’t spend time together during the day, but one night we all went out for dinner together. I sat next to a 40-something man (I’ll call him Bill) and enjoyed a warm, spirited conversation along with the fine dinner.

Turns out Bill’s a pretty interesting guy. But on the ride home from the restaurant I asked myself (since my wife wasn’t there) about that conversation, and whether Bill had scored any “And you?s” Sure enough, I could tell you all about Bill’s family, his work, his home, his hobbies and where he’d traveled. For God’s sake, I even knew what his wife’s work and hobbies were!

If he knew more than my first name, it would 
have to have been through some kind of ESP. 

So, after our couple of hours together, what did Bill know of me and my life? If it was more than my first name, it would have to have been through some kind of ESP.

Like Bill, many of these people are bright, well educated and from families in which one would presume they’d learned all the basic social graces. It utterly baffles me how this one courtesy—this simplest device of stopping one’s own monologue once in a while to ask “And you?...”, listen for a while and then perhaps ask a question or two—could have escaped about two-thirds of the people I’ve ever met.

HIDDEN GEMS
What all of this leads me to is that people, like most things in Nature, hold many wonders to be discovered with a minimal investment of attention, curiosity and patience. Here, too, there are layers to be looked under, details to be appreciated, dim recesses to be illuminated. And, now and then, you might find some delightful surprises.

People—even those who go on and on about their accomplishments, social connections, travels and pet peeves—rarely reveal much of substance about themselves. At least not voluntarily. While I can’t pretend to be very good at drawing people out, my wife surely is. What I’m able to do with discovery in the natural world, she does with people.

If you aren’t curious about the person you’re talking with, you’re not giving them the chance 
to surprise or delight you. 

She observes keenly, looks for an opening and then, skillfully (almost always tactfully), tries to peel back the loose layers of a person’s modesty or embarrassment, and often finds a core of real interest or passion. Part of her success stems from her ability to see herself in the other person’s shoes: “If I were she, what would I enjoy talking about?” My wife, generous person that she is, knows how to let other people shine their light.

I’m taking lessons from the master, though I must admit I still enjoy talking about myself a bit too much. And, to be perfectly honest, sometimes I’m just not interested in the other person. But I’ve found that, when I do make the effort to draw someone out, it’s nearly always rewarding for both of us.

They get to share their essence with me and, more often than not, their passion will kindle mine. The point is—just as with discoveries about places and things—if you aren’t curious about the person you’re talking with, you’re not giving them the chance to surprise or delight you.

GIVE AND TAKE
Now, I suppose one could say that my wife’s and my failure to get in a word edgewise in these “conversations” is just that, our failure. After all, when we opt to ask more than tell, aren’t we choosing not to share our story when we have the chance? The key word here is “chance.”

Wouldn’t anyone rather share something they care about because they were asked? Is having to interrupt the other person's lecture really the way you want to express yourself? Are my wife and I the only ones to have been raised with the understanding that boasting—not to mention monopolizing a conversation—is rude?

Might people actually think of their self-absorbed monologues as acts of generosity, as giving something of themselves?

Perhaps part of the problem lies in perceptions. Could it be that people actually think of their self-absorbed monologues as acts of generosity, as giving something of themselves? Maybe. But I beg to differ. I see it as taking, for in any conversation there are just three resources in play: time, attention and energy.

When you ask someone about their world, their life, you’re giving them your share of those assets. When you talk just about yourself, you take theirs. At the end of the day, it takes neither an expert on manners nor a psychologist to know that conversation works best when there’s give and take.

                                                  <->     <->     <->

Might the And you? factor be yet one more symptom of the plague of narcissism, competitiveness and loss of civility our culture has so clearly suffered over the past few decades? It’s worth pondering. If so, it worries and saddens me. I think we can do better. What do you think?

But enough about me. Let’s talk about you; what do you think 
about me? ~ From the 1988 film, Beaches -- adapted from the novel of the same name
 by Iris Rainer Dart

EYES OF A CHILD – Like You’ve Never Seen Before

What is it about the eyes of a child? Could they possibly be any wider open, any purer, any more completely in the moment? When the downy little head of a one-year-old turns your way, and those great, round eyes meet yours, you can’t help but be struck by both how voraciously and how generously they see, eagerly grasping every detail, yet with an innocence that’s utterly free of judgment or guile.

There’s also something especially disarming, I think, about eyes that look up at you—as children's eyes usually do. Could it be some instinctual comfort we experience when we’re dominant? If someone’s looking up at you, they must either be smaller or in a subservient position and, therefore, pose no threat.

Does it tap into our inherent drive to protect and nurture the innocent and vulnerable? Or do we see something in that gaze that puts us in touch with the sacred? Might we, at some level, associate it with the way a newcomer to heaven might perceive God?

Every observation within their pull swirls inescapably into their possession, as if swallowed
by a benign black hole. 

Whatever the reason, I’m utterly undone by kids' eyes—captivated by the way they envelope and explore everything, including me, as if they were holding it, turning it over, feeling it. Their capacity seems so far out of proportion to their size. Every observation and impression within their pull swirls inescapably into their possession, as if swallowed by a benign black hole.

INNOCENCE LOST

A baby’s eyes are just as enchanting for what they don’t show. They harbor no assumptions, no prejudice. The vulnerable way they gaze up at you would be the same if you were Miss America or Quasimodo. They’re not yet well versed in fear.

Expectation, disappointment, competition, prejudice—none of these attitudes is intrinsic to homo sapiens. They're learned. That’s why you don’t see them in a one-year-old’s eyes…and why you may start to see them in a two-year-old’s. What does that tell you?

Oh, that we could learn to give and receive 

that sweet, open, vulnerable look more often!

It tells me that the brightness that fades gradually from some children's eyes is getting obscured, layer upon layer, by lessons we wouldn’t teach them if we knew any better. Like sheets of sheer gauze, the first few of these filters may escape notice, but add enough of them, and the wrapping becomes nearly opaque, all but blocking the curiosity, delight and wonder that should remain every child's essence.

I WANT THOSE EYES

Some kids manage to keep that essence, that clarity, in their eyes longer than others. Even a child who’s learned to frown, pout and throw tantrums can, at other times, when the “attitude” falls away, give the most unguarded, most innocent of looks. I’ve seen it in the eyes of ten-year-old boys, who look up at their dads as if to say “I want to be just like him.” I’ve even seen it—though I must say very seldom—in the eyes of an adult. Oh, that we could learn to give and receive that sweet, open, vulnerable look more often!

When I’m with Nature, I try to put on my child’s eyes. It's not always easy. (Maybe I just have too much on my mind, or can't find and remove all those layers that come to cloud the clear innocence of one's perception.) But I want that openness, that vulnerability. I want to be so free of expectation that I can’t be disappointed.

Above all, I want to see everything as if I’d never seen anything before.

The eyes are the window to the soul. –  ENGLISH PROVERB

A GOOD DAY

Today was a good day.

I learned something. I needed a word in Spanish meaning way more than funny. My trusty old Latin American Spanish/English dictionary's definitions for uproarious, hilarious, a scream and half a dozen other terms fell short of the task. I Googled it. Finally, my ten-minute search paid off; I found just the adjective I needed: arrasador. (Its primary meaning is destructive or devastating.)

          For those four glorious minutes, 
          my spirit took wing.

I gave something. Today's the day I visit one of my two hospice patients. This one, to my great delight, has actually "graduated" from the program's six-month life-expectancy window, deciding, at age 91, that he was no longer a dying man. Now he's an active, curious, creative person with a mischievous sense of humor who not only creates digital art, but teaches art to his fellow care center residents. He inspires me.

I experienced wonder. In fact it happened twice before I'd finished breakfast. I was looking out my Minneapolis window at Nature all decked out in fresh white. I thought of how exotic the colors of a Caribbean reef or the deepest Amazon forest are to me, and imagined someone who'd never before seen snow finding this sight every bit as breathtaking. It struck me that, even for one who's seen snow all my life, this was indeed that kind of glorious moment. I just hadn't realized it before.

Just then, on the radio, they played Gershwin's Fanfare for the Common Man. I'd just started my cereal. I stopped chewing, put down my spoon and just listened. I let those sounds, the soaring and the sublime, transport me. For those four glorious minutes, my spirit took wing.

Yes, it was a good day. But such days are not uncommon for me; I seek them out...or should I say they seek me out?

What makes a good day for you?