“Conscious, interested pleasure.”
That is the phrase author Winslow Eliott uses to describe a feeling she gets when she observes the world quietly and with intention. In particular, she is talking about her own journey into happiness, and the role simple observation played in it. As she observed such ordinary things as a stack of clean, folded sheets or sleet on a windowpane, she writes, “I became amazed and delighted at the small story that surrounded an everyday image when regarded by chance—by happenstance—and duly noted.”
Going through life with the intention to notice the world with openness and without judgment is a deeply spiritual practice that can lead to immense contentment and peace. It is also excellent practice for writing.
When I was first beginning to write seriously, I kept reading that writers must be good observers, so I set out to notice and record what I saw around me. “Set out” hardly describes my approach. I was fierce and obdurate, intent on what became, for a time, an obsessive urge to observe. I sat in parks staring at people, squirrels, and trees, recording my thoughts, writing elaborate descriptions crowded with details, pondering the perfect phrase to capture an old man’s facial expression, the movement of a sparrow, the yellow of the August leaves.
It was an interesting experiment, but left me depleted and, if it improved my writing, I’d be hard-pressed to say how. Elliott’s approach is much better. It is a practice I think of as simple attention, and it brings a wealth of blessings to our lives—and our writing.
Paying simple attention enables us to observe the world without constantly evaluating what we see. Rather than thinking of a scene or event as “pretty,” “shocking,” “heart-warming,” or “irritating,” when you pay simple attention, you simply see and hear (and perhaps smell, taste, and feel) what is happening around you. You become open to experience. You screen nothing out.
Paying simple attention gives us fresh perspective. When I was attacking the art of observation head on, I came to situations with a preconceived notion of what I would find. Then, of course, I would find it, and nothing else. Those squirrels in the park looked and acted exactly as I expected—squirrelly. The rain felt wet and cold. My talkative friend was talkative. It was difficult to see anything anew. My descriptions were hardly fresh!
As soon as I relaxed my gaze, let events unfold, and watched with intentionality rather than determination, I started seeing things I didn’t expect. I thought, That squirrel is intelligent, an adjective I would never have used before. The rain is resolute. My talkative friend is vivid.
Paying simple attention enables us to notice our own responses. We may think that observation is all about what is out there—the tree or car or pack of wild dogs we’re looking at. But that is only half the equation. Much of observation has to do with our own feelings and responses to what we’re observing. If we find something disturbing, hilarious, sexy, or rude, it is because of our own minds.
Those responses are real and important, and when we pay simple attention, we become fully aware of them—even when they are unanticipated and distressing. Because we aren’t evaluating or judging, paying simple attention gives us permission to notice our feelings rather than squelching or denying them.
Paying simple attention sounds easy, but it can be challenging for those of us who have learned to shoulder our way through things yapping like bulldogs.
Simple attention requires patience, practice, and time.
Try this: Set a daily intention to notice the world around you. Don’t set out to determined to observe. Don’t judge what you observe. Merely observe. Be quiet and open. Allow the world to present itself to you. Over time, you will see your perspective, and your writing, change.