I think about that on this Friday morning — how seeing is art and how we must learn it and learn it again.
My mama first taught me how. In details like the long shadow, curve of leaves, glint of gem stones, chartreuse and scarlet, and that kind of seeing lives in me still. When stodgy adult responsibilities settle down, and resentments try to burrow roots, I can choose to put back on those child eyes and see my world, God, people and all these stories with thanks.
I read that “see” comes from the Latin “sequi,” which means “follow,” and it makes so much sense how our very living follows from how we see. When I see from a critical space, everything marches in line. When I see lack, lack grows.
When I look at the flickering candle and feel only the day’s worries press and ask for new eyes, it’s no longer angst or even flame alone.
Because the fire’s rhythm is exactly the bounce of a giant balloon tied to a rubber band, pounding against my littlest one’s palm. Up and down, up and down. It’s her giggles and arm trying to keep up, and it’s joy in what she feels and sees, and I’m a child again too.