Seeing
I was looking for pictures of trees the other day to enter a local photography contest and came across this one I forgot I had taken. At first I skipped over it because it looked like any other tree–branches and leaves. I was looking for something more unique. At my second study, however, I began to notice the dark tentacles, the coarse-grained trunk that disappears into charred, inky limbs. I didn’t notice this wonderful piece of Divine art at first because of the green leaves that drew my eyes away from the texture and darkness of the branches. Sometimes we miss what is in front of us because of the ordinary that surrounds it. By changing the picture to black and white I saw with a new perspective.
Recently, I’ve been rereading Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. In her book she describes a pasture in a Virginia valley. She fills each page with descriptions of things she saw–swans and frogs, trees and moss, pond water and the microscopic creatures that live in it. She doesn’t just see these things, however. She experiences them as if for the first time, as if she were a blind person blessed with the miracle of seeing. She describes texture and colors. She is amazed at the intricacies of leaves and the wonder of bugs. She gasps at the beauty of a diving bird swooping to earth and the gracefulness of a fish cutting the water. She sits on a log for long periods of time simply watching the shadows move and the light flicker toward dusk.
These are things I don’t do enough of myself. With my camera I try to capture moments in time so that I might hold on to the wonder I experience. I rarely stop, however, to contemplate that which I cannot capture with my camera or allow God’s created earth to hold me and speak to me, to show me it’s constant wonders. I seldom see with new eyes what has become familiar. I just assume I’ve already seen it. Like the tree in this picture, I pass over it with out noticing the fine detail, the creative genious, the perplexing intricacies. During this Thanksgiving week I wish I could promise to pay closer attention and be more thankful for the wonderful world around me. Perhaps I will. More likely, I will see as I always see–with a film of familiarlty and a blindness that takes everything for granted.
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