Changing Lenses

My dad’s house is perched just uphill from the Arkansas river. His back deck juts out several stories above the water, which spreads like glass, smoothly reflecting trees and sky. There is no better place to sip your morning coffee. From this perch, the whole world stretches out before you, serene and simple.

Sometimes, though, I crave an up-close view, so I wander down two flights of stairs and a ramp to reach the dock. Here, I find a different river. The water—glass from a distance—ripples and swirls, pulled by a thousand skating insects. Leaping fish break the surface, which shatters into silver circles. Even as the sun sets and the river turns black, these circles swell to catch the lingering light and spread, glowing, across the water.

From this zoomed-in lens, the reflection of trees and sky pixilates into dancing brushstrokes, a Monet in motion. Sometimes, I need to experience things up close. I need to feel the flitting of each insect, the splashing of each fish, the intake of each breath. Sometimes, I need to give myself fully to the sensations of holding my child, smelling my coffee, and being in my body.

Other times, I need the big picture view from the upper deck. I need to step out of the pixels of my private life and find myself situated within the whole.

This, for me, is one of the keys to happiness: knowing when to zoom in, and knowing when to zoom out.

When I zoom in to my long-haul experiences, I find pleasurable sensations that sit alongside the painful ones. There is poetry in the humdrum. I wiggle my toes, walk to the mailbox, comfort my child, listen to a loved one’s voice, feel dishwater on my hands, taste food, laugh at my own jokes, sing to myself, or simply notice my emotions, and in each of these actions, I feel myself catching light, which spreads in glowing circles. Zoomed in on the present moment, we expand to make space for its beauty.      

When I zoom out from my long-haul experiences, I find my own suffering situated within a picture whose beauty depends on the presence of both light and shadow. I’m comforted by how small I am—just one interconnected pixel within a vast and beautiful painting.

Zoom in. Feel the air on your skin. Feel your fingers or toes wiggle. Befriend whatever emotion you are experiencing right now.

Zoom out. Millions of people before us have experienced illness and disability. Millions of people after us will experience illness and disability.

Zoom in. What are you grateful for right now?

Zoom out. Feel yourself as a marriage of molecules—a beautiful but temporary union. Feel how this unites you with every living being who has come before you and every living being who will come after.

Zoom in. What will you create from the raw material of this one-of-a-kind moment?

Which lens do you need today? How does changing your lens alter your experience?