And the first
object he look’d upon, that object he became;
And that object
became part of him for the day,
or a certain
part of the day,
or for many
years,
or stretching
cycles of years.
The early lilacs
became part of this child,
And grass, and
white and red morning-glories,
and white and
red clover,
and the song of
the phoebe-bird
(Walt Whitman)
I spent last
week with children and grandchildren, breathing in blue sky and birch trees and
moss and hemlock. We paddled around a quiet lake, naming the little coves and
landings: “Boulder Bay,” “Forest Fort.” We hiked some trails along running
water, freed a fish caught in a rocky kettle.
I’ve been
thinking about Whitman’s notion that what we look on and respond to as children
becomes inextricably part of us. Maybe even part of our children, and their
children. Recent study of the brain seems to support this: childhood trauma can
cause lasting emotional, cognitive, relational harm.
Exposure to violence, even in very young children, can yield symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder, including
hyper-vigilance, anxiety, inability to focus, aggression, anti-social behavior.
There’s a
generational aspect to brain development and mental health: we’re shaped by those
before us, and we pass on what we’ve been given.
Yet there’s some
choice in this, some ability to redirect, rebuild, re-channel.
If what we do as
children builds connections in our brains, strengthens some regions, by-passes
others, then surely it matter where our children turn their attention, and the
time we spend helping them to see beauty, health, kindness and joy can shape
the adults they’ll become.
I grew up with a
grandmother who paid attention to nature.
Squirrel antics, bird calls, unfamiliar wildflowers, strange cloud
formations: she treated the small occasions of nature like personal treasures.
I can remember going to visit when she was in her seventies and eighties. She’d
have things to show, discoveries to share: a new groundcover blooming behind
her metal shed. An unusually shaped tomato, warm off the vine.
Those gifts of
attention stay with me and shape the way I view the world. I remember the
afternoon, back in the sixties, when she pulled her Chevy convertible to the
side of the road to stop and see where the mockingbird was: she hadn’t heard
one since her childhood in Oklahoma. And there it was, on a telephone line,
singing its unmistakable song. I still think of her whenever I see, or hear, a
mockingbird.
My grandmother
also taught me to pay attention to need: to look beyond myself and see the pain
of others. There was nothing easy about her life, and yet I don’t remember
hearing her complain. Instead, I remember her calling attention to the
generosity of others, and insisting on kindness toward those in need around us.
Skippy, an odd boy years older than us, mentally challenged in ways we didn’t
understand, was always welcome in our yard. And if he invited us to his house,
a block away, to see his monkey, or swim in his pool, a glance from Grandma
would quiet our objections.
A multitude of
pets helped me learn to pay attention. So did younger cousins. Children who
have nothing to care for, no smaller living things to attend to, can miss the
joy of empathy. Learning to make a cat purr, taking time to tame a parakeet,
facing my own fear of the dark to go out at night to reassure an anxious duck,
entertaining cousins while the grownups talked on and on: those were skills of
attention I’m thankful to have learned.
And so I look
for ways to pass those skills on to others. The parakeet and duck are
incidental, but the ability to see what pleases another creature, and then
provide it, seems essential. The ability
to see what’s needed in a situation, then finding a way to offer it, doesn’t
come naturally. It comes through the trial and error of caring for a smaller
sibling, friend, or cousin, the afternoons spent cutting and pasting to make a
card or gift or other offering for someone sick, or sad, or lonely. It comes
from helping to plan and prepare for a party or celebration, thinking about
what might please the guests, then feeling good when everyone has fun.
Attention to
words was another gift I was given. God’s word, primarily. My grandmother kept
her Bible open on the kitchen table, wrote notes in the margins. “Read this!”
she’d say with quiet excitement. “Then look at this! What do you think it
means?” Surface interpretation wasn’t what she was after. She saw such riches
in the words I found myself memorizing passages, puzzling over them myself,
carrying them through life like a treasure. Holding the health of certain
passages against deep hurts and turning my attention toward a story far beyond
me.
My husband grew
up with a tradition of bed-time questions, and I learned a similar practice of
reflection at a camp where I worked: What did you learn today? What was a thing
of beauty? What are you thankful for? Quiet conversations at bedtime can prompt
attention throughout the day. There are always new things to be learned, new
beauty to celebrate, gifts to be thankful for, if we take time to pay
attention.
It’s easy to
focus our attention on the burdens of the day, or to allow our thoughts to be
clouded by the loudest voices around us. Easy to turn our thoughts to
difficulty and pain and what we wish and what we never had.
Yet, when my
attention slides in harmful patterns, I hear my grandmother’s voice:
“Whatsoever
things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just,
whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are
of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on
these things.”
I am thankful
that I was taught to think on, attend to, celebrate the beauty and grace of the
world around me, the things of good report, words of health and goodness.
I’m thankful to
spend time with the next generation, and the next, shaped, and continuing to be
shaped by choices of attention in the generations before us.
We are people of
open water and small boats, birch trees and birds, quiet conversations around
blazing fires. Attentive to each others’ needs. Thankful for God’s kindness.
I tremble with gratitude
for my children and their children
who take pleasure in one another.
At our dinners together, the dead
enter and pass among us
in living love and in memory.
And so the young are taught.
(Wendell Berry)
[This is a revision of a post from 2011, Paying Attention, Next Generation. I'm reworking some earlier posts this summer, as travel and time outside limit my time for blogging.]
Please join the conversation. Your thoughts and experiences in this are welcome. Look for the "__ comments" link below to leave your comments.
