Learning to See

Consider Paul Jantzen's "Prairie Wanderings," which I have been reading a few essays at a time. What he has seen in places I have sped by, not to mention his ability to note in poetic detail as well as explain how these fragments connect to the broader world, astonishes me. He has an exquisite gift and a highly-developed skill of seeing.

So how does a person learn to notice and appreciate the wonders around them?

On my walk to the river, I pass the same sights. The time of day and the seasons change. Sometimes I am struck by what see. Sometimes it’s background.

I am more likely to find aesthetic satisfaction if I look for it. Trying to take a good photograph can provide that focus.

Clearing my mind of rubbish helps.

Noticing something for the first time is intrinsically satisfying, I think. Yet seeing and appreciating the same thing repeatedly builds a kind of depth.

What is this appreciation, other than the recognition that something is good? Or is it the act of recognizing something that makes it good? Some firing of reason and emotion in my brain that connects who my species has become to what I now value?

But to continue, without clear understanding.

For now and then, when I am in the act of putting one foot in front of the other, I am halted by a sensation, sometimes euphoric, that what I am experiencing is so wonderful that I am simply and profoundly grateful to be alive at that time and place.

And then the sensation will pass. But it lingers, etched in memory. And perhaps I walk the same path again and again hoping to find it again.

But a good walk, with only small satisfactions, is often more than enough. And apparently, easily missed.

The question remains: How do I learn to notice and appreciate the wonders around me?