On Seeing

 

The trails in spring are expectant; birds flit overhead, carrying dried grasses and bits of torn ribbon in their beaks. Trees hide blossoms in bunched fists like guests holding rice at a wedding. At any moment, the jubilation will begin.

I stop at my favorite spot—the one where I saw an otter slipping from one finger of the pond to another seven years ago—and I wait. Always there is something which fills me here, whether it is as simple as the light casting shadows of branches on the water, or as quiet as the rustle of reeds swaying with the breeze.

There is no otter today. Nothing moves but the air stirring the surface of the pond. The water wrinkles just enough to blur the trees’ reflections into an impressionist motif. I breathe in deeply, filling my lungs with the rich scent of mud and of moss. A red-winged blackbird calls, and the new leaves of water lilies float at the pond’s edge on long, slender stalks. In a few more moments, I am ready to move on.

But then I see it.

Massive, the creature lies still on the floor of the pond. I’ve been less than two yards from it for the past fifteen minutes, yet I almost walked away without noticing. An enormous snapping turtle rests in the mud.

My eyes focus on the pond floor. I can see where the creature has moved through the detritus, leaving a faint trail. But now it is resting in a hollow, and I wonder if it’s a female, exhausted from leaving the pond to lay her eggs. Or is she lying still because she sees me?

Backing away slowly, a sense of wonder fills me. How many things do we miss in this world because we don’t think to look deeply—or perhaps, more importantly, to look differently—at what is right in front of us?

A tilt of the head, a trick of the light—sometimes that’s all it takes to see something we’ve never noticed before. It’s like finding a rare treasure. But what if we practiced looking at our everyday world, our everyday lives, in a different way? How much more would we see that has been waiting to be discovered?

There are riches right in front of us. Perhaps they are hidden in what we consider to be the mud, the messiness, of our lives. Is it possible to look at our difficulties a little differently? Is it possible that there is something worth noticing which we’ve overlooked? Is it possible to find something to be grateful for in the midst of the strife?

I believe it’s not only possible, but that it’s imperative for any of us who wish to grow, rather than stagnate. Our difficulties teach us what we need to learn, and connect us to all humanity—to all sentient beings—and allow us to develop compassion and gratitude.

As a writer, I know that it is the rich mud of my life that feeds my art. What a privilege it is to know that every day brings more opportunities to look closely, to look differently, at what is before me.

What a privilege it is to live in this world and to know that every moment is an opportunity to grow.

And even, perhaps, to flower.

© Sjdekoning | Dreamstime Stock Photos

“No mud, no lotus.”  Thich Nhat Hanh