Journal: Stand and look up.
When my brother and I were growing up, we did a Christmas thing. It was one of the few things we ever did together. As soon as the tree was up, we would drag a pillow and some blankets into the living room, fold the blankets to make a bit of cushioning for our backs, and lie on the floor with our heads tucked under the tree to fall asleep staring at the lights. We chatted a bit, but I don't remember any kind of deep conversation. No secret swapping or philosophical reveal. He would almost always fall asleep first. Mainly we were there for the lights.
I think once we hit middle school, we tapered off from the experience. By then, we had smartened up -- acknowledging Floor=Back pain. We started camping out on couches and recliners for a few nights. Still, the conversation was mindless chatter. Sans profoundness.
He has kids now. We still don't communicate. I wonder if his boys camp beneath their trees. I couldn't provide a significant tree for my girls. I don't remember if they ducked under their grandparents' tree; I just don't remember.
Recently, in my therapy group, a young woman said she liked to go into the forest and look up. She does it whenever she gets the chance. "I love that sense of smallness. It's like, my body loses balance but my mind gains insight, you know? Like, whatever problem I took to the woods, it wasn't as big of a deal compared to my inner tree holding the rest of my life." I wanted to ask her if birds pooping from that height constituted a conundrum or some sort of thought hiccup, but we aren't allowed to ask those sorts of questions. Honestly I hate not being able to be myself.
I can't wander into the woods; my walker won't fit. And I don't need to look up to lose my balance. Unless I have wandered out there to die, I won't get to experience that feeling of awe. But I can still look up. The other night I spent an hour staring out the window. I am in a place far from where I grew up; the stars didn't look familiar and I was uneasy. I spotted a falling star. It was brilliant! In a sky full of pin pricks, this was a marker, thick and flowing.
The next time you are somewhere you normally are not, look up. It doesn't have to be nature. It can be information, a person of personal influence or connection, or to watch a flock of birds passing overhead. However it happens, you will come home with a new perspective -- even if it is with only one eye.
Shortchanged in foresight,
She Who is Collared