On awe
awe as an antidote to alienation
There’s something about flying, its transcendence, that I will never get over. In spite of the technological advancements that have happened since the dawn of flight, and those increasing at pace around us, there is something so pure and simple in the pleasure I get of looking up to the sky and seeing humans do something we were never designed to do: fly.
Until very recently, I hadn’t been on a plane for some time. I was an unidentifiable speck on the ground, looking up at the contrails crisscrossing the unending blue, the red lights twinkling from the night. On the flight, my view inverted; I looked out and down to the vastness of the earth. Maybe because I’m not a frequent flyer, I haven’t settled into the normalcy of flying. I’m not sure I ever will. But I couldn’t just tune in to in-flight entertainment or sleep or read. I needed to look out and witness the wonder.
It wasn’t long before tears formed at my eyes and a gasp dried my throat. There, ahead of me, was the most unreal formation of clouds. It looked too perfect to be real, but, if perfection lies anywhere, it is in nature, in its call and response, cause and effect, its deep interrelations and interconnectedness. To look at a plane from the ground is to be awed by the achievements of humankind. To be on a plane and look out is to be awed by creation itself, to be humbled that far greater beauty and wonder exists beyond the effort of our fallible human minds and hands.
I showed my husband the video I took when we landed. “Isn’t it amazing,” he said, “that in the history of humankind, we are in the minority of people who have seen the clouds like this? More people than not haven’t seen the clouds from above.” I’ve kept turning this thought over, mulling the uniqueness of what it means to be here on earth in this moment, sharing the land with other people of this time, of having both history and the present at our feet. Of how mundane and inconsequential it is to be thinking about awe and flight when there is so much ugliness and devastation in the world.
If we were to follow the thread of much of the needless pain and suffering that exists, we would reach a common root of alienation. Alienation from self, from land, from one another, from history, from tradition, from the future. Alienation is the necessary foundation for the conditions of the world to exist in their current form —much harm from the intimate and interpersonal through to major geopolitical events, wouldn’t be possible without it. Alienation asks that we don’t see life forms for what they really are — alive, full-bodied, living and breathing, and therefore worthy of attention and stewardship, as opposed to objects or things.
So how can we get better at seeing?
I think awe goes some way towards the answer. As silly as awe may feel (like being amazed at the variety of fruit in my fruit bowl or planes or someone being really passionate about something I don’t know or don’t care much about), awe disrupts what we take for granted and provides us with a new lens for seeing that makes us say, “ah!”.
Awe becomes a portal to presence, and presence, ephemeral and fragile as it can feel, is the glimmer that opens not only our sight, but attunes the instrument of our whole bodies, towards connection and possibility. When we hear the laugh of a loved one and the morning song of birds, taste food cooked by our mother’s hands, notice our feet on the ground as we take step by step, feel an enveloping gust of wind, we can allow ourselves to receive wide and open if we only we pay attention and let ourselves be touched. We begin to connect more deeply to the richness of our own lives, we think all the people it took for the conditions of our life to be possible, how the conditions for others must change. We can be inspired to action. Being aware of our aliveness, and the sanctity of this, is the tie that binds.
Opening up to awe is to realise that nothing is “normal” — there are no “givens”. Awe helps us to realise there are miracles every day. The miracle of collective effort. The miracle of being here and now, alive. The miracle of the impossible become possible, like humans being able to fly — and the realisation that we could do this again and again. Awe is the antidote to alienation, and the encouragement to dream.
Thank you for reading this edition of Constellations. If you enjoyed it, please do all the things — like, share, subscribe, leave a comment (my favourite, I love to hear what you think!).
I’m hoping I’ll have more capacity in the coming months so fingers crossed I’ll be here more consistently.
Looking forward to being with you again soon
Sarah 💛
This was a beautiful read and a lovely reminder!
Love this! I wouldn't consider myself a super frequent flyer, but I do live abroad, so at least once a year, I find myself on a plane. Every time I'm in awe of the different ways the clouds form, or how the sun shines across them, or how tiny the world looks below. I've never thought about how in the history of mankind, we are in the minority of people who have seen clouds from above, and I love that quote. Thank you for sharing!