By Tabitha Bozeman
I took a walk with our Great Danes and two of my girls the other day, enjoying the beautiful weather. The girls ran ahead of me, and it was fun to see them beside one another: different ages, different heights, but so similar in many ways. Both are living parallel lives and will grow up and compare their experiences in the same family, I’m sure. I hope they stay close, all of my children, and I hope they appreciate the beauty of their differences. As we walked, I noticed the mullein that is growing already, as well as the thistle, daffodils, and purple dead nettle. The trees are budding, and if you look closely enough, spring is already here, even if it has been a cold week. There are still so many dead leaves everywhere that it is easy to miss some of the hidden signs of the next season. Walking with the girls gave me the perfect opportunity to slow down and really pay attention.
Lent is a season of paying attention. For those who observe it strictly, it is a continual, daily practice of paying attention to what is missing and why. For those who observe it more casually, it is still an opportunity to see clearly, to pay closer attention to the aspects of our lives that we take for granted. For some, that looks like limiting diet or habit. For others, it might look like paying attention to what strangers might need, or how we interact with one another. Whatever form it takes, this is a season of observing, remembering, paying attention, and seeing clearly as we move forward with intention.
Something I have thought a lot about recently is just how parallel all our lives are. On a grand scale, we all are born, live, and pass away. On a daily level, though, some lives look vastly different than others. The human experience varies greatly. These variations can create opportunity for connection, or drive disconnect. Often, these differences are minute and if we aren’t paying attention, we might miss them. Other times, the differences are so obvious it can be hard to find similarities. This week, I was looking at Gerry Yaum’s photojournalism of the people who live under the freeway in Bangkok. They are living life at the same time I am, making do with next to nothing. Babies are born, raised, and do homework in makeshift homes under overpasses. Dinners and celebrations are enjoyed only yards away from railroad tracks. Beds are makeshift and piled on the ground. A friend showed me a video from Drew Binsky who has traveled through Manila and experienced the underground tunnel beneath the freeway where at least 100 families live. She also showed me documentaries of the “coffin houses” and “cage houses” that many people in Hong Kong call home. Seeing individuals in Hong Kong living in spaces barely large enough to lie down in, in kennels stacked on top of one another, after working all day is sobering. Especially when I can stand in my home and look around trying to decide what to get rid of when I declutter. While I choose what and how to limit, others are living within limitations they have not chosen. Both limitations are real, but they are not equal. Seeing these differences and not taking my life for granted is one way I can pay attention.
I am working toward paying attention to my own limitations, to the unexpected opportunities for gratitude and connection, the smallest signs of Spring, and the quiet beauty of this seasonal shift. Going for walks, chatting with my family, noticing when a student seems down, and paying attention as we all live our parallel lives reminds me to see my life clearly.
This season is my favorite for outside walks with the girls. There is so much to look for, and changes happening right in front of us if we are paying attention. The seasons change no matter what our daily routines look like, and slowing down so we can see it happen is a gift we can give ourselves as much as paying attention is a gift to those we love. I hope I continue learning to truly see and to pay attention in the way the poet Mary Oliver did, treating this sacrament of seeing as sacred in her poem “Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End?” She writes: “There are things you can’t reach. But/ you can reach out to them, and all day long./ The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God./ And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier./ The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily,/ out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing/ from the unreachable top of the tree./ I look; morning to night I am never done with looking./ Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around/ as though with your arms open./ And thinking: maybe something will come, some/ shining coil of wind,/ or a few/ leaves from any old tree–/ they are all in this too./ And now I will tell you the truth./ Everything in
the world/ comes./ At least, closer./ And, cordially./ Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake./ Like goldfinches, little dolls of goldfluttering around the corner of the sky/ of God, the blue air.”
