There You Are!
Years ago, I sat in a room full of people, listening to the teaching of a wise woman. Outwardly, I sat slumped in momentary relief, having deposited babies in someone else’s arms for awhile. Inwardly, I was riveted . . . all my energies focused on just three little words. Three little words the woman spoke; three little words that have swirled around my brain over the years and settled onto the top of my list of most-prized attributes where character is concerned: There . . . you . . . are. The challenge she set forth: will you be a “There-you-are!” person, or a “Here-I-am!” person? Hmmm . . .
I rushed home to pour forth the wisdom. I’ve spouted on this topic to our children so many times over the years . . . mostly when we prepared for dinner guests. “Let’s think of questions to ask about them!” “What books are you reading? What do you like about your job? What do you love about playing that game?” Good strategy for making people feel welcome, I thought. And it is. But I’ve noticed that becoming a badge-bearing member of the “There-you-are!” club doesn’t necessarily mean you wear this quality like your favorite coat. It may be practiced, but not precious.
Maybe you’ve stood stiffly in the company of someone who shouts “Here I am!”. You know what that feels like . . . the one who mostly talks about, well . . . him or (her)self. And what if you’re inwardly aching, not measuring up, hurting deeply, and smiling like plastic? Oh I could think of some folks. Can you? The trouble is . . . sometimes one of those folks is me.
But just maybe you’ve been lucky enough to feel the drenching relief, the warm sunshine of that blessed soul who walks into the room . . . who walks into a life and shouts “There you are!!!”. He or she seems to make a great game of discovering everything about you in just a few moments. You become the guest of honor at his or her banquet. You feast and get drunk on the nectar of value. For all of that moment suspended . . . you matter. Oh I could think of some folks. Can you? The happy thought is . . . sometimes one of those folks is me.
So how can I tip the scales in the better direction? Where do I cross the line between practicing behavior and actually living the dance? Could it be in the noticing?
I have always loved museums. The quiet hallowed hush, the new discoveries . . . what I’m drawn to and even what I don’t understand. Recently I tagged along with a group of real artists on a guided tour led by a real artist. I do not include myself in that gifted group; but I am an ardent admirer . . . well . . . groupie of sorts. I stood in the back, close enough to see the paintings but far enough back in the crowd so the real artists could study. I was fascinated and flushed with wonder, learning the significance of pleasing horizons, the value of lines and angles, the impact of distance and perspective. I get giddy learning new things like this. The only thing that kept me from raising my hand to ask questions, besides my son’s potential embarrassment, was that my jaw was perpetually dropped in awe and amazement.
And then in one lightbulb moment, it all clicked for me . . . the real reason I love museums! Because, there, looking long into a million brushstrokes that evoke deep, beautiful mysteries and awaken me to beauty, there I am in the company of the noticers. The men and women who create these masterpieces . . . they’re the ones who unashamedly sit for hours on a hillside to study the light over the perfect landscape. They look into eyes and faces long enough to capture all that’s underneath the surface. Some paint solely from memory . . . they stayed long enough with their subject to cultivate the eyes of their memory. They value noticing. And because they do, we are able to lay down our heavy coats and burdens for a few hours or longer and drink in the solace and serenity, or allow the waves of anger, discontent and sadness to speak to us and gently turn our gaze inward. What a gift they give us. It’s like nothing else; and it all began in the fertile soil of the noticers.
When the kids were younger, we played a game of sorts. They interviewed each other and asked the questions, “What makes you feel . . . loved, respected, cared for, valued, and honored?” I still have all t
he slips of paper . . . scratched out on the Linhard’s Auto Repair and Towing notepad. Besides my favorite answer from my 5-year-old, “I feel cared for when people plays Candyland with me.”, the common thread of response was “I feel valued when people take an interest in something that interests me.” “I feel respected when people listen to me, when people notice me.” Oh my, could it be that simple?
Word origin tells me that “notice” comes from the Latin “notus” and “notitia”, which means “being known”. How hard is it to be a “noticer”? Could simply be taking the time to notice someone and
make them feel they are known . . . even for a little while? Could it even earn me a membership in the “There-you-are!” club? Sign me up! Because all of us long to be known. So I must practice in little things, and practice daily. I want to keep company with the noticers of sunsets and sad faces, the observers of seashells and shy smiles. And maybe it is just as simple as this:
Journal entry - Early June morning—Bluebird babies nest in the old terracotta feeder hanging from our flowering cherry tree. Faintly, weakly, they cry for their morning meal. Yesterday, I climbed up on the picnic table with my son to steal a peak at their gray downy huddle . . . their eyes still closed. A red-tailed wren perches on the fountain nearby and squawks her response. “I’m not your mama; but don’t worry. She’ll come soon.” They seem to quiet. Then I notice her. Proud Bluebird mother of newborns pacing the peak of the rooftop. Standing guard, looking down, protecting them, noticing me. What a scene playing out before me: care-full creatures nurturing, protecting life. Bird lullabies in the 6:30 am sunlight. Who notices all this?
Who notices all this? I can practice watching bird scenes. I can practice looking at lovely art. I can practice listening to rain music. I can even practice on you. “There you are!”
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