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Copyright © Louis Schmier and Atwood Publishing.
Date: Tue 12/3/2002 12:42 AM
Random Thought: Look At The View
A very, very good morning. It's 3:00 a.m. Can't sleep.
Thinking about something that happened in class yesterday. One of the
students came up to me, smiled, and said something quietly to me. I
smiled back. And, in the spirit of Forrest Gump, "That's all I'm going to
say about that."
While I waiting for the warm milk to kick in to drug and drag me
back to sleep, I find myself re-enacting an insignificant incident that
occurred while Susan and I were driving home last Saturday from West
Tennessee. We were on those boring ribbons of concrete we call a
super-highway. It was early morning. We figured we'd beat both the sun
and the bumper-to-bumper Sunday holiday traffic. Almost no one was on the
road. Susan quickly fell asleep. I was alone with NPR. I went on
automatic pilot. Nothing was registering. I was driving along totally
unaware. Violating my own warning of "don't eat and dirve," all those
holiday fixings on which I had overdosed were keeping me in a caloric
daze. I succumbed to a "tryptophanic fatigue."
I had been driving for hours. I didn't notice the beauty of the
mountains that through which we were winding our way. I was missing a
lot. Susan woke up and started looking around. As she learned over to
give me a peck on my cheek, she suddenly exclaimed, "Look at that view!"
So much for the loving kiss. Nevertheless, I felt as if I was injected
with an antidote to the energy draining tryptophane that all those days of
turkey left overs were still throwing into my bloodstream. I snapped to
attention and felt a surge of energy. It was like Susan had dramatically
pointed to a circled place on a map and excalimed, "There!" I felt
present, of being there now. The monotonous rhythms gave way to an
exciting dance. As my eyes became deeply seeing, roving microscopes, I
felt as if the car was slowing. I began to notice details: an early
morning thick blanket of white fog lazily laying in the valley like a
tired nimbus; individual branches of the bare trees lining the valley side
of the highway spider veining the bright blue backgroud sky; clumps of
grass or a single tree clinging desparately to the rock cliff along the
mountain side of the highway; a lone, large bird gliding in cicles at the
distant end of a valley; strangely shaped shadows thrown across the
highway by the the rising sun's rays; a single rock lying on the shoulder
of the road; the patchwork of individual faded colors that quilted the
mountain sides. I found myself finding and cherishing the great value of
small things rather than looking for sweeping vistas that might hold
matters of cosmic importance. There was an exciting majesty even in what
seemed the most ordinary and trivial sizes, movements, shapes, and
textures. The wonders that abound from attentiveness to the present
moment.
It's a good lesson for the classroom that was brought home
yesterday. Look at the view. The wonders that abound from attentiveness!
It does not take much to be in a daze. It is easy to succumb to
monotonous rhythms. It takes a lot of energy, desire, effort, and
commitment--and practice--to be awake. Oh, but when I look at the view, I
feel a "nowness." When I am in attendance as I take attendance, when I am
there and not somewhere else, when I bring an energy and excitement with
me, when I really see and listen to what is all around me in that
classroom, when I am totally present in the middle of all those neat
people with nothing left over, when I am mindful and connected to each
one, I feel myself swathed in magic. It is a delicious perfume that
scents everything I feel, think, see hear, and do. It opens my eyes and
ears and heart to a world of ceaseless wonders. I am a receptive audience
for the little epiphanies and little miracles that come my way.
Look at the view. The wonders that abound from attentiveness!
When you do that, it is like, as the Sufis say, tasting--and savoring--all
the treats of the banquet set before you right now.
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