COPING WITH COVID – No Better Time for Seeing Generously

 At first glance, vision may seem like a simple one-way transaction. We open our eyes. An image goes in and gets processed by the mind. If it's something important, it may move us to feel or do something, or it gets stored somewhere for future reference.

In fact, it's easy to think of all our senses like that—merely taking in sensations. But it doesn't have to be that way. Consider touch. I mean we generally see, hear, taste or smell anonymously—without any involvement of the thing we're sensing. But when we touch something, it always, automatically, touches us back. 

REAPING WHAT WE SOW
Until recently, I thought touch was the only one of our conventional senses that could do that. But with COVID-19 trying to suck the life out of our touching, it seems a good time to reconsider the reach and intention of our other senses.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if seeing were more like touch? If one could actually impart something akin to the warmth and gentle pressure of a hug or holding hands without violating social distancing guidelines?

        You purposely, preemptively, dismiss the
        distractions and open your soul to wonder
        before you even know it’s there.

It's hard to imagine, because we've gotten complacent in our seeing. We expect to find our images delivered effortlessly to us on screens, often while sitting alone or at least in our own little worlds. With virtually no contact with the actual things depicted on the screen, it's kind of a sad exercise in anonymity.

This consumption mentality of seeing affects even the way we perceive real stuff. For example, we seem to prefer looking at things we already know. Like so many TV re-runs, their familiarity soothes us, keeps us company, actually turns off our minds. Nothing's really new. We give nothing, we invest nothing and, one could argue, we get nothing.

So what is seeing generously? What does it look like?

Is our seeing all it can be?

A CURIOUS TRANSACTION
It may happen unconsciously. Let's say you're looking at something—an animal, a sunset, another person. If, at that moment, your mind has its foot on your spirit, you won't be especially moved. But as soon as you begin to let go of objectives and schedules, turn of the cell phone and truly notice, something begins to change. 

You start seeing more proactively. That is, instead of waiting for small wonders to strike your visual fancy, you actually go looking for them. Instead of expecting them to somehow crack through your inattention, your distraction, you, at least now and then, purposely, preemptively, dismiss the distractions and open your soul to wonder before you even know it’s there.

            When we see things in this way, we grow,
       our consciousness grows and the world
       becomes a more mindful, loving place.

At first, it may be just small increments of investment, feelings like appreciation or satisfaction. That's okay; it's a start. But then, if you can allow yourself to be curious, the way you were naturally when you were a child, the transaction starts to truly transform.
 
Now your seeing's become a gift, not just to yourself, but to the person or thing you're curious about. When we see things in this way—not just with our eyes, or even our mind, but with our heart and our spirit—we grow, our consciousness grows and the world becomes a more mindful, loving place.

WHAT ABOUT YOU?
Have you ever noticed the way a person lights up when the conversation turns from the typical self-promoting, cocktail party chatter to genuine interest in something that really matters to that person? You know, when "Me, me, me…well, enough about me. What do you think about me?" turns to "What about you? What are you interested in?"  When we see someone that way—or when we wonder at one of Nature's miracles—that's a blessing we give to that person, that creature or that thing.

This is even more important during this historic confluence of pandemic with what may well be the most frightening political collapse we've ever experienced in the U.S. It's a time when those with the emotional maturity to do so must recognize other folks' pain and loneliness. If we're ever able to reconcile our differences, we must learn to view even our most bitter political enemies with compassion. 

That is how seeing generously looks and sounds...and has to be.

Do you see generously? Does your ability to do so hinge on what's going on in your life and in the world? Think you'd still be able to if Donald Trump' reign of error continues for another term? We'd love to hear about your ideas and experiences!

THE SPACES BETWEEN – Learning to See Both Everything and Nothing

In Nature, as in life, we can see more if we notice not just things, but the spaces between things; not just sounds, but the silences they frame.

Far from empty, these inhalations in the song of creation are what make each note so clear, so sweet.
From Under the Wild Ginger – A Simple Guide to the Wisdom of Wonder, by Jeffrey Willius

                                                            —//—         —//—          —//—

Once again, it’s Australian Open time. For me this winter tennis tournament is a welcome escape from the cabin fever that’s so often hanging, cold, damp and gray, around my shoulders this time of year.

Besides watching the greats—Djokovic, Williams, Nadal, The Screamer (Sharapova)—alternately pick and beat each other’s games apart with astounding skill and endurance, there’s another pleasure for me in the Australian Open.

       Most of the impression comes from what
       we read, as it were, between the lines.

For the past several years, one of the event’s main sponsors has been ANZ, a banking conglomerate serving Australia and New Zealand—thus the initials. Its logo appears somewhere in the background of about half the camera angles.

I’m a former marketing communications guy and brand designer, and I think ANZ’s logo is, at least design-wise, among the finest corporate marks I’ve ever seen.

A POSITIVE-NEGATIVE ATTITUDE
The main reason I love this graphic so much is that it engages the eye in a most effective interplay between positive and negative space. The positive forms—essentially just two light blue circles, one cut in half; the other with a light-bulb-shaped bite taken out of it—are laid onto a dark blue background. The negative space is just that background area flowing between and into the circular elements.

And it’s so simple; that’s what makes it so elegant. With just those three basic forms the designer’s created both an interesting arrangement of the shapes, and, with the spaces between, a unmistakable human form.

More than that, in the way that little being’s arms and torso flare out around the blue circles, it becomes a dynamic, playful expression. It spreads, and reaches, and grows. It seems the arms are reaching out toward you, welcoming you, perhaps blessing you in some way. It’s friendly, exuberant, simultaneously humble and confident.

Just what you want in a bank, right? And most of the impression comes from what we read, as it were, between the lines.

     In western society…we’re taught to see 
     what’s there, and completely miss what’s not.

SEEING WHAT ISN’T THERE
I’ve written occasionally about this interplay between positive and negative space. As I’ve tried to capture in that quote from my book, Under the Wild Ginger, it can have a profound effect on how we see the world and life.

It’s knowing the whale’s down there without even seeing it. It’s the void, the potential, in the human experience an entrepreneur or inventor sees and then fills. It’s the powerful meaning in someone’s hesitation when you ask them what they think of something you’re just nuts about.

Seeing and appreciating the spaces between is one of the great little secrets of being truly aware and in the moment. And it doesn’t come naturally to everyone. At least in western society, we’re often raised and educated quite literally. We’re taught to see what’s there, and completely miss what’s not.

            To twist an old axiom a bit, 
            you have to believe it to see it.

NATURE THE TEACHER
Allowing existence to something most people would say isn’t there takes a little practice. What’s perhaps most difficult for many folks is the irony that, the harder you try to do this, the less likely you are to succeed.

My best teacher has been Nature, with a dash of faith, instilled by my parents, thrown in. If you can simply BE in Nature—no agenda, no schedule, no expectation, just pure, simple presence—Nature will eventually show you both what is and what exists right next to that, behind it, even in the space it now occupies, but once didn’t.

Sounds a bit metaphysical, a little new-agey, right? That’s where the faith comes in. To twist an old axiom a bit, you have to believe it to see it. And how does one unaccustomed to it come by that faith? It helps if you want to—something which I’m not sure many milennials do, addicted, I fear, to all the pre-digested information and virtual experiences available to them at arm’s length.

The other key to hearing and believing in Nature’s counsel lies in what I like to call seeing generously. It’s the attitude, the belief, that truly seeing—even what may not seem at first to be there—is more like giving than receiving. Far from the competitive, materialistic fervor our culture seems to believe drives our economy and makes us all happy, it is not an act of acquisition. It’s an act of surrender.

LOOKIN’ WHERE THEY AIN’T – The Wisdom of Circuitous Seeing

The other day, as I waited for my take-out order in a busy Asian restaurant, there was a deafening crash. Someone in the kitchen must have dropped a stack of large pots and pans onto the hard tiled floor.

The sound came from my right. Everyone around me—everyone in the whole place, I should think—turned toward it. For some reason my first reaction was to turn the other way, to my left, and watch the reaction of a woman standing nearby.

This observation has given me pause. First of all, I don’t remember jumping or even feeling very alarmed. Does this mean there’s something wrong with my fight-or-flight instinct? And why was my rote response to check out what others were doing instead of doing something myself?

    I get animals to come to me not by reaching 
    for them, but by turning away…

TRICKS OF THE TRADE
As with most ponderings of this sort, I’ll probably never have the complete answer, but here’s what I’m thinking:

I’ve long felt I have a gift for noticing things. People I’ve walked with in the woods seem to marvel at my pointing out stuff they’d just walked right past without seeing. In this era of banal sensory distraction and overload, this is the gift I’ve dedicated much of my time to sharing by way of my writing and blogging.

One way I counsel my followers to be more aware is by learning to sense more creatively. That means watching not just the flock of starlings, not just the school of sardines, but picking out one individual and seeing what it might do. It means getting out early or maybe staying late, times when Nature’s less likely to be introverted. It means getting down low to look at something most people see only from above—or vice versa.

And one of my favorite tips for the uninitiated: Look where others aren’t looking. You see, nothing makes an observer more undetectable to an observed than distraction. The young doe riveted on the sounds and smells of a rustling woodchuck (or the well-placed toss of a stick) is far less likely to notice the measured movements of me and my camera.

I use this oblique approach to small wonders all the time. When I take pictures of people, I often get the most candid, spontaneous results when I wait until another photographer’s stealing everyone’s attention for a formal shot, and then snap mine just before or just after hers. If I want to connect with a skittish pet, I get them to come to me not by reaching for them or cooing, but by turning away, lowering myself and being still.

    This kind of sensing is more an attitude than 
    an action, more an instinct than a discipline.

PASS IT ON
Apparently my discipline of distraction works, even on me. Haven’t you ever struggled to remember something, only to find that the harder you try the less likely you will? That only when you let go and start thinking of something else does the elusive memory come to you? It’s those last three words that are most telling; you’ll notice I said “come to you,” not “be found.” There’s a big difference.

This kind of sensing is more an attitude than an action, more an instinct than a discipline. To many, especially in our American culture of linear thinking and direct, literal connections, it may seem counter-intuitive, but it can be learned…and it can be taught.

It’s a skill we’d do well to teach to a new generation of nature-starved kids and grandkids (as well as the adult guides in their lives).

If you want to see unusual things, see in unusual ways.
Photograph a group posing for someone else.
As the quarterback drops back, watch what the center does.
Turn away from setting sun for a glimpse of rising moon.
FROM UNDER THE WILD GINGER – A Simple Guide to the Wisdom of Wonder

How May Flies...For a Mayfly

When you live for just hours, you'd better make that time count. And that's exactly what adult mayflies do. Hatching from gilled water nymphs, they do nothing but fly, mate and die.

I've seen millions of these elegant sprites in my lifetime, from one small soul landing on my lapel, to blankets of them clinging to the leeward sides of cabins, to corpses piled so deep on a bridge that it took snowplows to clear them away.

But, you know, there's always a way to see even the most familiar thing in a fresh, new light. 

Recalling one of my favorite tricks for spotting small wonders, I decided to ignore the swarm and focus on just one individual.

My brother and I were canoeing in northern Wisconsin the past couple of days.
One evening, just after sunset, we were standing and admiring trees' black lace reflections on the still, gilded water.

I happened to look up, and noticed hundreds of mayflies hovering silently just above our heads. At first, they seemed to be moving randomly about. But, recalling one of my favorite tricks for spotting small wonders, I decided to ignore the swarm and focus on just one individual.

PHOTO: Joe Petersburger - National Geographic Stock

Wings ablur, my fly would lift straight up five or six feet. Then his wings would suddenly come into sharp focus—stopping, not together in their resting position, but spread out to the sides—and the little guy would parachute straight back down to where he started.

We looked around, and just about every other mayfly was doing the same thing, bobbing straight up and down, over and over. We figured it must be some kind of mating ritual.

The composite wisdom of thousands of 
generations has taught them the best chance 
of landing atop Ms. Right.

Come to find out that there is, indeed, a method to the mayfly's madness. It's just the males bobbing up and down, not to show off their prowess, but simply to cover more ground—air, that is.

Evidently, the composite wisdom of thousands of generations has taught
them that, when you mate in mid-air, this affords you the best chance of landing atop Ms. Right.

Oh, what you can learn and marvel at when you look at things—
even things you thought you knew well—in new ways!

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Tips

TIP #26

See generously.

Though seeing may seem a kind of acquisition, it is as much about giving as taking.

Let go of agendas and schedules; surrender the cell phone; commit  your time and attention; pay attention and share wonder.

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Tips

 TIP #23
Hold things up to the light.

PHOTO: Steve Jurvetson

Leaf, fish scale, agate, maple seed. All have inner beauty—veins, cells, grains, layers, colors—revealed only in their translucence.

Let the sun or your own illumination be your x-ray, curiosity your power...and see deeply.

BLACK & WHITE – And Other Shades of Gray

One of my first college studio art assignments was to create an 8-inch by 8-inch paper collage, each of whose 64 one-by-one squares was black. The squares could actually be taken from any sheet source—paper, fabric, plastic or any other material—as long as each one was pure black.

I used all of these materials, including many samples taken from magazine photos of black objects: a car, a dress, a night sky, a piano.

With my grid lightly penciled in and my little squares neatly stacked, I started gluing them all down to the cardboard base.

     If you see anything as black or white—
     as purely one way or the other—you're not 
     looking carefully or thoughtfully enough.

What took shape was not a solid sheet of "black." Far from it. It was an elegant mosaic of deep, rich colors, each brought out only by its contrast with its neighbors. What might have seemed common black in its original, unchallenged environment now shone with distinct color: eggplant, mahogany, claret, midnight blue; deep woods green, ebony.

And it wasn't just the hues; a range of textures came into play too. Even the blackest value rendered on newsprint now looked dull and flat next to a sample printed on glossy magazine stock. A square of black muslin paled next to, of all things, a swatch of black plastic garbage bag.

The second part of the "Black & White" assignment was to do exactly the same thing with "whites." Suffice it to say the results were every bit as surprising and beautiful as those with the "blacks."

       I'd already learned that truth comes only 
       in shades of gray; now I was thinking, if 
       only it were that simple.

This project left an indelible impression on me. It reinforced my nascent understanding that, at least in terms of color, everything is relative. It illustrated what we'd been learning about color theory, specifically that perfect white comprises all colors, while perfect black is the absence of color. And that any but the truest black owes its hue to some color it's not absorbing, while shades of white fail to reflect all colors.

On a more philosophical level, the exercise reminded me that there are no absolutes. I'd already learned that truth comes only in shades of gray; now I was thinking if only it were that simple.

In life, as in art, things you might think plain at first prove to be rich with nuanced beauty and meaning. If you see anything as black or white—as purely one way or the other—you're not looking carefully or thoughtfully enough. For the fact is, in triumph or defeat, in health or disease, in agony or ecstasy, there always exist undertones of the opposite.

Isn't this what makes life so interesting? Do you find, as I do, something reassuring and hopeful about it? I'd love to hear your thoughts.

(For a fascinating look at subtle distinctions of color, check out this fantastic color visualization tool)

SEEING GENEROUSLY

At first glance, vision may seem like a simple one-way transaction. We open our eyes. An image goes in and gets processed by the mind. If it's something important, it may move us to feel or do something, or it gets stored somewhere for future reference.

In fact, it's easy to think of all our senses like that—merely taking in sensations. But it doesn't have to be that way. Consider touch. I mean we generally see, hear, taste or smell anonymously—without any involvement of the thing we're sensing. But when we touch something, it always, automatically, touches us back. Until recently, I thought touch was the only one of our conventional senses that could
do that.

As soon as you begin to let go of objectives and schedules, turn 
off the cell phone and truly notice, something begins to change. 

Wouldn't it be wonderful if seeing were more like touch? It's hard to imagine, because we've gotten complacent in our seeing. We expect to find our images delivered effortlessly to us on screens, often while sitting alone or at least in our own little worlds. With virtually no contact with the actual things depicted on the screen, it's kind of a sad exercise in anonymity.

This consumption mentality of seeing affects even the way we perceive real stuff. For example, we seem to prefer looking at things we already know. Like so many TV re-runs, their familiarity soothes us, keeps us company, actually turns off our minds. Nothing's really new. We give nothing, we invest nothing and, one could argue, we get nothing.

So what is seeing generously? What does it look like?

Is our seeing all it can be?

It may happen unconsciously. Let's say you're looking at something—an animal, a sunset, another person. If, at that moment, your mind has its foot on your spirit, you won't be especially moved. But as soon as you begin to let go of objectives and schedules, turn of the cell phone and truly notice, something begins to change.

When we see things in this way, we grow, our consciousness grows and the world becomes a more mindful, loving place.

At first, it may be just small increments of investment, feelings like appreciation or satisfaction. That's okay; it's a start. But then, if you can allow yourself to be curious, the way you were naturally when you were a child, the transaction starts to truly transform. Now your seeing's become a gift, not just to yourself, but to the person or thing you're curious about. When we see things in this way—not just with our eyes, or even our mind, but with our heart and our spirit—we grow, our consciousness grows and the world becomes a more mindful, loving place.

Have you ever noticed the way a person lights up when the conversation turns from the typical self-promoting, cocktail party chatter to genuine interest in something that really matters to that person? You know, when "Me, me, me…well, enough about me. What do you think about me?" turns to "What about you?"  When we see someone that way—or when we wonder at one of Nature's miracles—that's a blessing we give to that person, that creature or that thing.

That is how seeing generously looks and sounds.

Do you see generously? I'd love to hear about your ideas and experiences!

WHAT WHALE? Observing the Invisible

Nano-scientists are studying and even making things out of sub-atomic particles too small to see, even with a microscope. A little closer to home, I can tell there’s a big carp darting away from the bow of my canoe or a hungry smallmouth hunting for supper even when the water’s too murky to see them.

How? The same way those scientists keep track of those quarks and fermions; the same way you know about the wind even though it’s invisible and you’re inside your house where you can’t even feel it.

 Often the best—sometimes the only—way of seeing something is by the effects it has on something else. In the case of the wind, I get my clues from the trees, a flag or a leaf tumbling across the yard. With the carp, the giveaway is the subtle bulging of the surface where the water’s displaced by the fish’s movement. And you know bass are hunting when you see schools of shiner minnows breaking the water’s surface in flight.

This method of “indirect observation” has worked well for me in locating sloths in Costa Rican forests and tracking whales in the Sea of Cortez. Again, the animal may be all but invisible, so the trick is not to look for it directly. You look for the other things that give it away.

     With this expectation, it’s like the 
     mother of all Where’s Waldo pictures.

For sloths, it's the distinctive cecropia trees whose leaves and resting places they seem to prefer. And I try to find subtle breaks in the pattern of dark, narrow branches and the light spaces between them.

For the whale, the giveaway might be its “fluke prints,” the surprising, wave- canceling circles caused by the upflow of water from the creature’s up-and-down tail movements.

Indirect observation involves a subtle shift in one’s mindset. If you’re looking for a sloth, you’ve set your unconscious visual filter to rule out anything that doesn’t have brown, shaggy fur and four legs. With this expectation, it’s like the mother of all Where’s Waldo pictures; let’s say it’ll take you a while.

But if you switch the filter to a coarser mesh, that is one set to look for more generalized information, like breaks in patterns, you improve your odds considerably. If you’re bird watching, this means adjusting your eye-brain filter to focus not so much on spotting the birds themselves, but on noticing movement. It’s a pretty fine distinction, but it works.

"I believe only in what I do not see." Gustave Moreau (French, 1826-1898)