How to Hold More

Today, the clouds sail swiftly from the south. Branches and shingles, lawn furniture and the contents of my recycling bin sail with them. I watched a red-tailed hawk turn his beak to the wind and glide backwards. Then, he turned again, tilting his body into a column of rising air and soaring in a wobbly circle. There are things I want to say—points I want to make that I assure you are very clever—but they blow away and scatter before I can pin them down. I’ve tried, over and over—typing, deleting, typing, and deleting again. I will have to be content, I suspect, with circling what I long to express, never quite landing on it.

I’ve been going out of my way to open myself to awe this week. I stood in the wind, arms held wide, letting it whip against my face and arms and hair. On a walk before the wind’s arrival, I crouched by a small, seasonal stream to pet the green, mossy back of a rock, as if it were a dog. And like a dog, I found that the moss was smooth and soft if caressed in one direction but bristled when approached from the opposite side. I’ve been finding awe by reading poetry (like this poem from Ada Limón), by listening to music with my eyes closed, and by leaning into the sensations of amazement that arise when I see people doing things that are particularly kind or brave or challenging. When the moon was full, I carried a chair out into the middle of my yard and sat for the better part of an hour beneath its glowing face, simply for the awe-tinged experience of doing so.

Last week, I told you that I’m trying to sit with the darkness and suffering that permeate our world. I’m trying not to numb myself and not to turn away. This is still true. Leaning into awe—into the micro-moments of pleasurable amazement, where the boundaries between self and other temporarily dissolve—is not escapism. Awe does not contradict the horrors of our world. Awe and horror are kin. They are related phenomena—both require us to be open to what’s happening, and both precipitate a goosebumpy sense of overwhelm in the face of something vast. Horror, heartbreak, grief—these are difficult emotions to stay with. I find that filling my day-to-day with moments of awe increases my carrying capacity. It expands me, pushing the walls of self outward, so that I can hold more.

If I have a super power, I suspect it’s this: I experience a lot of awe. I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember. I think that this, more than anything else, is what’s carried me through the dark moments of my life. And still, I want more of it—want to open myself to awe more intentionally.

This week, I listened to a fascinating conversation between On Being host Krista Tippett and awe researcher Dacher Keltner. The happy upshot of Keltner’s research is that we are wired to experience awe, and we can learn to do so with ever greater frequency. We can and we should do this, Keltner says. Why? Not because of any moral imperative, but simply because awe is good for us, body and soul. I enjoyed the conversation so much that I just purchased Keltner’s new book on the subject. You can expect to hear more about it in the weeks to come!

In the meantime, do you have questions about awe? Anything is fair game. I’m not an expert, but I now own a book by one.