The Native American didn't argue. They walked ahead twenty yards to where a large clay planter stood in front of a hotel, holding full-sized shrubbery. The Native American pointed toward the dead leaves at the base of the plants. To his amazement, the New Yorker saw crickets.

"You must have an extraordinary pair of ears!"

"No better than yours. It just depends on what you are listening for. Watch this." The Native American reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of quarters. He threw them into the air. Heads turned at the sound of change hitting the pavement.

"You see. It all depends on what you are listening for."

Or looking for, as the case may be...

I have written before about scotoma, which means selective blindness. We see what we want to see. In the story, one lesson is clear; we hear what we want to hear.

(Although selective hearing may have its benefits. My father tells me he doesn't mind his diminished hearing, because what he thinks people are saying is more entertaining than what they actually say.)

Tonight was our first full-cast rehearsal of the play Through the Garden Gate (based on my book Soul Gardening). (If you are near Vashon Island next weekend, you are invited to be a part of the garden magic.)

In the play, English gardener LR Holmes introduces his neighbor, young Lucy, to the possibility of garden fairies.

Lucy: I was wondering, do you think fairies are becoming extinct? You know, like endangered species?

LR Holmes: Oh, no, no. People are just moving too fast to catch sight of them.

Rediscovering wonder takes root in the soil of the simple sentence, "I never noticed that before." I am welcoming, inviting life in, not allowing internal censors and judges to scrutinize, making certain that this moment passes muster. In moments of amazement, we render our internal scorekeeper mute. There is a good deal of conjecture about who merits this streak of luck and why. Some people get all the moments of astonishment. Or perhaps, like young Lucy, or the man in New York, they've allowed themselves to see, and to hear, and to notice.

The philosopher Martin Heidegger speaks about "dasein"--being in the world. His reference is not to existence, but to the capacity to enter fully into life. One of the characteristics of a person who is dasein, is listening. American poet May Sarton would say it is being truly attentive. It is honoring--giving our attention, our care, our respect to--whatever the moment brings.  

And it sure sounds good on paper.  But this week I read about a study that tested people's attention and awareness in public spaces. Researchers had a clown ride past people on a unicycle, and found that only half those they questioned afterward reported noticing the clown. That number was higher if people were walking with someone else, or engaged in social conversation. But only 25 percent of people who were talking on cell phones noticed the implausible, wonderful clown. 

The study's verdict? Cell-phone conversations demand a different neurological engagement, causing us to create mental imagery that drowns out the processing of real images, which the scientists called, inattentional blindness. 

In plain English: We sure do miss a lot of life when we're not looking.  Or listening. Or paying attention in any way... 

By means of a diversion, we can avoid  

our own company 24 hours a day. Pascal

This study doesn't really surprise us, does it? We see similar anecdotes almost every day. Just not that many with clowns on unicycles. And we all know that it's not really just about cell phones. There's no moral high road here. Yes, we can shake our heads, or tsk tsk, or catalog the litany of social ills exacerbated by technology. Can you tell if I'm in one of my Luddite moods? It just comes over me somehow. Can you hear me now? 

But this is hardly new. Alright, we say. We get it already. Being available 24-7 has rewired our synapses is a detrimental way. Not enough, I hope, to keep us from laughing at our inconsistency. Last week a woman's cell phone rang during the lecture. Because she sat in the front row, I went down and answered the phone for her, with my microphone still on. "No (I said into the phone) she can't talk now. . .Why? Because she's in a workshop about The Power of Pause. You know, stopping the distractions. . .Yes, I think she's having a good time, thanks for calling." 

Yes, I gave her some grief. But the truth is, I couldn't have paid for a better sketch. So in the long run, I probably owe her some money.  

Here's how all of this affects me. I am too often, completely unconscious about the affect of this growing world of distractions (or interruptions or exhaustion or commotion). To complicate matters, we morph into our will-power mode; "Okay. I will just quit my addiction to distractions."  

Here's the deal: it's not about what is removed; it's about what we choose to replace it. It's about what we value. Plato reminded us, "What is honored will be cultivated." Not what is spoken or believed or taught. What is honored.

The Native American honored listening, or attention without judgment.  And when we pay attention, we create a fabric in our soul which absorbs daily miracles.

I'm home now, after being on the road for two weeks. A lot happens in a garden when you're gone.  The Bearded Iris blooms are dazzling, part diva, part debutante.  And the Aquilegia, self seeded and scattered throughout the garden, with blooms ranging from dusty rose to royal lavender, offers the hummingbirds a meandering pub-crawl. The roses are budded and ready to enchant.  I'm with May Sarton on this; I think I'll spend the first part of the morning wandering and looking for miracles.  How many will I see?  It all depends...   

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