Learning (again) to See

Now, well into July, the garden marches slowly toward maturity. Even as the days grow shorter, the marigolds grow and throw out their blazing orange blossoms. Hydrangea bushes proudly hold aloft their fantastic blue. I’ve tied up the gangly tomato plants, built a rustic support for the zinnias and run strings up to high places to guide the heaven-reaching morning glories. We’re all ready for the full heat of the summer predicted for today.

I’ve recently completed a wonderful biography of Thoreau by Robert Richardson. (Just as I’m writing this and checking on Wikipedia, I’ve learned that he married Annie Dillard (another of my heroes) in 1988 after she had written a fan letter to him upon reading this very biography.) In Henry Thoreau: A Life of the Mind, Richardson reports that, late in his short life, Thoreau was greatly influenced by the English art critic and philosopher John Ruskin’s writing on art and how we see things. Ruskin was a wonderful writer and Thoreau was moved by his descriptions of paintings as well as his observation of the infinite subtlety of color in nature.

Though we have words for colors, when we look closely we can notice that we see a wide range of hues that we might call by one name. In the eye, in the mind and in nature there is a wide range of experience that cannot be conveyed in words. We say the leaves of the tree are green. But look closely at the leaves on any tree and you will find a wide range of shades of color. And you will see that the color is constantly changing through the day as the quality of light shifts and varies.

Even the walls of one room that we say are one color, are actually, when we look closely, always many colors. The play of the reflection of light creates a multitude of shades that we easily cover over with the idea of ‘one color.’ Our minds have learned to edit out the variation. The wall is white—never mind the greenish reflection of light off the plant or the gray-blue shadows around the edges. Words and convention innocently obscure our direct experience.

Painters and artists must train themselves to see again. Perhaps we ordinary folks should do the same. As I look out at the crab apple tree near where I am sitting, I notice the outer leaves are almost transparent in the soft morning light. The inner leaves are darker and more solid. Though the sun is hidden in the morning mist, some leaves shimmer a golden green while others hold an opaque and steady green.

A thousand colors reveal themselves as I take the time to look more closely. The light bounces off pigments in the leaves then activates the receptive cones in my eyes which send impulses to some remote corner of my brain and I ‘see.’ We work together, me and the trees and the all photons dancing in between us all.

There’s not as much to do in the garden these early summer days. The planting and rearranging is mostly done. Now it’s the tending and befriending time—taking it easy in the heat, drinking lots of fluids and appreciating the riot of subtle color that appears before me.

Personal Practice – Take a break from your life to look around. Find a comfortable vantage point (it could be right where you are), settle in and take a breath. Then look around at the color that surrounds you. Notice the subtle variation of hues and shades. Notice what is shiny and what is dull, what reflects and what absorbs, what colors infiltrate and what reflects. Appreciate the world beyond words—clearly evident and ever changing. This is your true home.