posted by Paige on Uncategorized

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The gifts of the senses are easily taken for granted. Surrounded as we are by constant stimulation, we forget to pay attention, to notice, to appreciate what we experience.

Bombarded by sound, we shut down to the ordinary noises we hear–a TV nattering in the background, the ocean-mimicking whooshing of passing traffic. Casually, we overlook sights that would have arrested and enthralled any of our ancestors just a few generations back–a man walking down the sidewalk talking on the phone, a woman casually flicking through a magazine on her iPad as she waits for the bus. Common miracles.

Passing a corner restaurant, we catch the scents of foods we didn’t know as children. We taste combinations of flavors never before considered possible that now seem run of the mill.

And our whole world has been smoothed over. Not just the pavement laid down nearly everywhere we care to go, but the very surfaces we touch on a day-to-day basis are more often than not smooth and uninteresting to the touch. Fleece jackets, credit cards, smartphone screens–so much of what we place our hands on is designed to feel as delightful–or unnoticeable–as possible.

But sometimes the animal self perks up, senses alert. Like when we go out into the day just after a rain. Maybe there’s the smell of dirt, wet and invigorated. Or the sound of a bird calling out as it passes overhead. The sight of high tree branches rustling in the post-rain wind, the feel of the newly-visible sun on exposed skin. All the world awake again.

These things are often present, of course, but we forget. We forget because we perceive so much all the time that it’s hard to keep perceiving. We’re overwhelmed, overloaded. We have to back away, to shut down a bit, to dull ourselves, so that it all doesn’t become too much.

We’re just animals, after all. Miracles of blood and bone that can only change so quickly. We startle, we tire, we grow hungry. All the effort put into smoothing out the world around us can’t shift the essential animal nature of each of our bodies, or its needs.

To seek out textures sometimes, to find the things we love to sense, is an adventure worth having. What do you sense that moves you in some way? Can you let these experiences in? What’s it like to sense, to truly experience what’s there? What’s worth knowing, worth remembering, worth integrating on the ride of this human life?

What happens if you turn on some music and dance exactly the way you want to? Or if you scoop up paint with your fingers and smear it on a canvas? If you try cooking a favorite recipe of your grandmother’s? If you run your hand over the bark of a tree trunk? If you stop and listen–really, actually listen–to the person speaking to you?

What happens then? Is it smooth? Bumpy? Scary? Exhilarating? What happens then?

 

Tags: body, mind, spirit