We Are the Kissers and the Tellers

In the best possible way.

We are Noticers with capital N.

We are Noticers of many things. That’s what we are good at. Not by accident, but by design, for survival. We had to become that. We ‘notice things’ since the beginning of our particular time here on earth. Documenting our visceral experiences in any way that suits us, just in case they’re stolen from us, not listened to, or harshly dismissed.

We consistently, insistently, and continuously observe, pay sharp attention to the fine details of our interiority and of all that is between us, and in nature, of our own, and of our planet. Then we tell stories. In visual expression, in music, in writing, in movement, in film making, and in theater. All this has nothing to do with any type of performance.

Yesterday morning as the sun was aiming its strong summer light towards my little piece of soil in front of my house I’ve noticed things in the part of it that is closest to the paved road. I noticed the black Mission Fig. I noticed the pink Flowering Quince. And I noticed the Star Magnolia. After noticing, I trimmed, and I pruned. I shaped.

I sculpted, and I reshaped, and I noticed some more.

I noticed the black Mission Fig. Only one year in the ground and already so large, wild, expressive. And I also noticed that beyond her image of health and vigor, there were crossing branches, parallel, infringing on each other’s space, stealing freedom. All vying for the attention of the invisible undergrounds and the vast light of the sky above.

I noticed the pink Flowering Quince. Her flowers, their pinks long gone by now. But her leaves still holding on but losing their perk, involuntarily, but naturally, giving up their earlier authority over the wildly intertwining twigs, giving into obnoxious thorns, shamelessly sticking out into the driveway every which way, asking for my intervention.

And last, that morning I noticed the Star Magnolia. Already showing fuzzy buds of next year’s breathtaking flowers to be. And I, in my vision, desiring to see her thick, winding inner branches, her structure below the foliage, her magnificent architecture beneath the experience of the lone tree. A master holder of space, shape, and movement.

And why do we notice all that? And what for? Why the burdening of our minds with endless details? Every day, every minute? Is it to feel what is alive in the body and what is true in our histories? To properly weave the many threads in our body crossing one another in a frantic manner? Is it to cautiously grow into the one life we are allotted?

Is it that we had to become that way, that we had no other choice? To honor our interiority, because if we didn’t, who would? Is it about giving ourselves what we needed, what others didn’t? Is it because we were taught that ultimately we are utterly on our own? Highly perceptive, highly sensitive, and nowhere to go with it all?

Yes! We are Noticers, and we are story tellers. Yes, that’s it. We are not painters, mixed media artists, photographers, poets. We are grand Noticers. Witnesses. We refuse to vanish. To ‘sit quietly’. We are Noticers, observers of every nuance, every color, every word. The fluctuations of our hearts. Perceivers of sacred vows and estrangements.

Do we pay attention to all the details in order to make sure we are not blindsided again by life’s betrayals? To expose ourselves on our own terms and timelines? To manage what is said about us, control how we are thought of? To determine how we are being perceived? So we can speak our truths, without others putting ‘words’ in our mouths?

To be rebels in a world that wouldn’t let us be?

To be naked when we want to? Exposed and experienced?

To control damage?

Manage weight?

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