Seeing Others

Weekly wisdom to bring you home in 2 minutes.

A SHORT STORY

In my view, there's one skill at the center of society. It's the ability to see others deeply and to make them feel truly seen, heard, and understood.

Lately, I've been thinking about my Mom. She spent most of her life as an intensive care nurse. I can still remember our nightly ritual when I was a child. She worked the night shift, and I would call 407-897-1637 and say, "Hi, may I please speak to Helen? This is her son." After being transferred, I would hear her familiar voice answer, "Intensive Care, this is Helen."

In high school, I had the chance to volunteer with her on the unit. I witnessed what happens when you meet people in the midst of their deepest suffering. Time and again, I watched nurses help patients find something in themselves they could no longer see: the idea that they could get better.

It taught me something I've carried ever since. When I truly see you, especially your potential, you begin to see it in yourself. When someone shines their attention on us with care and belief, something inside us begins to grow.

As we go about our week, perhaps you and I can practice this. On the subway. At the coffee shop. In the grocery store. At work. We never really know what another person is carrying.

One of the greatest gifts we can offer another human being is the simple experience of being seen.

A POEM

“The Raincoat” by Ada Limon

When the doctor suggested surgery
and a brace for all my youngest years,
my parents scrambled to take me
to massage therapy, deep tissue work,
osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine
unspooled a bit, I could breathe again,
and move more in a body unclouded
by pain. My mom would tell me to sing
songs to her the whole forty-five minute
drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty-
five minutes back from physical therapy.
She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered
by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang,
because I thought she liked it. I never
asked her what she gave up to drive me,
or how her day was before this chore. Today,
at her age, I was driving myself home from yet
another spine appointment, singing along
to some maudlin but solid song on the radio,
and I saw a mom take her raincoat off
and give it to her young daughter when
a storm took over the afternoon. My god,
I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her
raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel
that I never got wet.

Grateful,

Michael