Frames and focus

Seeing through frames

I’ve been thinking about how we frame our lives, what we focus on.

Over Easter I saw the beautiful and familiar chapel at Turvey Abbey from a different perspective. There were many more in the congregation than usual and I couldn’t sit where I normally do. I was right at the back, my line of sight into the chapel framed by a polished wooden arch. This gave me a limited view. It struck me I was engaging my whole self to a far greater degree than usual. Leaning forward to see, and opening my ears to hear, I was using my body in prayer. Of necessity, I was more focused and less distracted.

There’s  a beautiful story about the framing of light in Elizabeth Goudge’s book The Bird in the Tree. At the end of the First World War, a young boy sees and hears things no child should as his wounded soldier father dies a terrible and protracted death:

…Terrified by it, he had fled one evening to the dark attic, slammed the door and flung himself down sobbing on the floor. He…sobbed himself sick and exhausted until at last, childlike, he had forgotten what it was he was crying about and had become instead absorbed in the moonlight on the floor. It had been like a pool of silver, enclosed and divided up into neat squares by the bars of the window. He had counted the squares and the lines, dark and light, and had been delighted with them…In some vague way he had understood that dark things are necessary; without them the silver moonlight would just stream away into nothingness, but with them it can be held and arranged into beautiful squares.

Information overload

As I sit here tapping away on my keyboard, I have easy access to more information than my grandparents could have accumulated during their entire lifetimes. We are served up an endless supply of goodies and distractions. We’re so afraid that there’s something vitally important we’ll miss, or that we’ll lose the opportunity to have fun or to explore some new excitement. I’m as guilty of this as everyone, grabbing for the next shiny thing.

Depth not breadth

There’s another kind of focus framed by living simply, leaving most of those distractions unexplored. It’s scary but it can make our lives very special. It’s illustrated by this excerpt from Crispin Sartwell’s intriguing book Six Names of Beauty:

The basic structure of the blues is almost always the same and the repertoire of riffs fairly limited. Indeed, part of the richness of the blues derives from its narrowness: any slight deviation takes on great significance within a system that is so restricted, in which the expectations of the listener are so determined. The arc of the song becomes evident from the first few moves. The expressive intensity of the blues derives from its roughness and simplicity. When you no longer have to focus on what the next change will be, you focus on how to express yourself within it, how to exploit it emotionally. Spontaneity follows on and reflects discipline.

I think there’s an important message for us in the concept of focus. Its discipline brings depth and profound richness. And it’s enormously difficult for people like me (and you?) whose love of new things keeps us flitting on.

Depth AND breadth?

Can we combine depth and discipline with spontaneity and joy? Yes, we can, and I’ll be writing about that soon. Meanwhile what do you think? What tips can you share about living with both focus and spontaneity?

Image by OliBac

Elsewhere:

I love this poem at Don’t Eat Alone, which sets out with great wit how writing can become a chore rather than a joy. Mary Jaksch’s post about deep listening at Goodlife Zen could, I think, be applied to deep blog reading. I know I often skim, and perhaps you do too. I just trimmed (with regret) a few blogs from my reading list so I can focus more.

And I hope you like the facelift I’ve given Anchors and Masts. Any feedback is most welcome, especially if there’s anything you find confusing or difficult to read (I might still do a bit of fine-tuning with the colours).