Gaze
“Owl sat on the rock and looked up at the moon for a long time.”
In Owl and the Moon, Owl sits down at the seashore and watches the moon rise over the water. Owl then bids farewell to the moon and starts walking home, but the moon follows him. Owl insists that the moon must stay over the sea and that it cannot visit his house, for Owl’s house is too small and he has nothing for the moon to eat. But the moon does not listen, so Owl climbs a hill and shouts good-bye. The moon disappears behind some clouds. Owl is sad as he travels home alone and gets ready for bed in the dark. But suddenly his room is filled with light, and as Owl looks out his window he sees the moon reemerging beside the clouds. Owl is delighted to see his companion, no longer feels sad and closes his eyes to go to sleep.
This last story about Owl is one of my favorites. Not because we learn that Owl lives near the ocean or has an affinity for hats, but because of this line that Owl mutters while he is gazing at the moon:
“‘If I am looking at you, moon, then you must be looking back at me. We must be very good friends.’”
Four years ago I took my oldest son, he was just six months old at the time, to a Claude Monet exhibit at our local art museum. We walked around the room looking at the artist’s work from his early years, but were frequently stopped by other visitors. They would turn their gaze from these famous paintings to look at this small baby. They jokingly asked if he had a favorite painting, or was a Monet fan, to make the exchange last a bit longer. All of this was unusual compared to my previous visits, where the atmosphere was quiet and reserved — like being on an elevator — and no one spoke to me or looked at me. It was there in the gallery that I first realized that when babies are out in the world it is less about them seeing things and more about them being seen.
Like Owl, when we gaze at something or someone, and engage in what has been described as “a long, loving look at the real”, we move from seeing that something or someone in the context of how they suit us to instead seeing that something or someone for what they truly are. Owl, who must have looked at the moon for hours as it slowly rose, sees not just a friend, but someone looking back at him. This invitation is available whenever we make eye contact with someone. As those art patrons looked down and saw infant eyes looking back at them they were seen not for what they can do or what they own or what they know or where they are from or who they are, but simply because they are. And being seen that way changes how you see.
“The moon was gone. ‘It is always a little sad to say good-bye to a friend,’ said Owl.”
We've lost a lot of well-known facial gestures as a result of the coronavirus. The simply act of smiling at someone is hidden while we keep each other safe. But I am so grateful we haven’t lost our ability to look each other in the eyes. To see and to be seen is a real gift we can offer, and one we can all use. Much like Owl, it isn’t easy to be alone in the dark. Support is difficult right now not just because we are far apart, but because we all are suffering at the same time. And yet, if I can see your fear and grief and anxiety and worry and exhaustion and loneliness then you must be able to see mine. And perhaps simply that will take some of it away and we can close our eyes at night a little more easily.
“Then Owl put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. The moon was shining down through the window. Owl did not feel sad at all.”
I hope you have enjoyed reading Owl at Home. If you have been encouraged in anyway to enjoy being at home, as the book started, and to feel less sad, as the book ended, then I am glad.
May you have eyes to see and patience to gaze at your surroundings. May you find friends in unexpected ways and feel the joy of being seen in the fullness of who you are. May you be free of troubled guests and worrisome bumps. May you have strength to swallow tears and rest at the thresholds of your life. And may you, my friend, not be sad but always feel light shining on you as you are cloistered at home.
All quotes from Owl at Home, Copyright © 1975, by Arnold Lobel