Attention

Attention

The word attention gets a lot of play in the context of aspiration. We seem to want to individually and collectively achieve an unflappable state of “paying attention,” often joining the term with other aspirations, such as mindfulness, gratitude and intention.

I don’t like to call my forms of attention a ‘deficit,’ because that implies a lack, a less than.

Attention also happens to be a charged, and even controversial, word in many respects. An example that comes to the forefront is the way it’s been used in the diagnosis of children and adults who are deemed to have attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. ADHD seems to be one form of attention we want people to steer clear of, regardless of their age.

As I did some journaling around the question of attention today, the word “choice” appeared over and over. “Is the attention my choice,” I wrote in the upper-right corner of a hot-pink lined page. I also wrote “forced or given” coupled—just below the words—with the heaviest underline my Pilot Precise Grip Extra Fine tip could muster.

Many people who are dyslexic have differences in attention when compared with the norm. Some of us carry the dual diagnosis of dyslexia and ADHD. As an accompaniment to my recent dyslexia diagnosis, I have a provisional diagnosis of ADHD with overfocus, which means I can (and often do) go hours on end working away at something that’s captured my attention.

I also am able to take in a great deal of information all at once, and the sensory input / processing / synthesizing can sometimes be overwhelming, even draining. I actually find this aspect of my attention quite useful, however, as I pull seemingly disparate elements into my writing, in particular my poetry.

I don’t like to call my forms of attention a “deficit,” because that implies a lack, a less than, a “should aspire to be something else”—something feathering the perimeter of what’s considered normal. Instead, I like to refer to my dominant forms of attention as “focused attention” (notice I’ve dropped the “over-” prefix) and “wide,” or “roaming,” attention.

That’s where I am at with it right now, that is. Next year, or even next week, I might conceive of my attention in a new way.

I think “choice” and “force” come up for me when considering what attention is, and how it makes me feel, because I am often asked to perceive the world like other people: to think like them, to feel like them, to work like them, to learn and discover and believe like them. In short, I am asked to have forms of attention that are, or at least seem, congruous with theirs. I feel as if I am being asked to enter into a foreign way of paying attention at the expense of my own ways.

Given my ways of paying attention, my definition of attention will most likely differ from that of others. I don’t necessarily want to change the fundamental ways in which I filter and experience the world. I will probably never aspire to living in a way that depends on focused, central-task attention which neither verges on being “too invested” on the central task nor allows too many “tangential” elements in that could threaten that central task.

Still, my core definition of attention might have something in common with other people’s: something to do with noticing, with letting in, with experiencing, with using all “57 or so” senses in any encounter. Something to do with letting others in, letting the self in, letting mystery in, letting awe in.

My definition also includes staying with something, whatever that something happens to be at the moment, in the connection and expansion of moments: focusing like a camera lens on what’s in front of us, behind us, under us and above us. Focusing on each other and on ourselves.

In a nutshell, my definition of attention, then, seems to center on two seemingly contrary elements: focusing and letting in. I guess that’s in precise alignment with the focused and roaming forms of attention I’ve been blessed with and sometimes challenged by. Fancy that.

Making Room for Attention

I shouldn’t have to do this for attention—sequester myself in the bedroom with my laptop. But that’s precisely what I’m doing. When I’m home alone, following my day as it unfolds, I can pay attention in the proper way, reaching an almost meditative state and in fact moving in and out of formal meditation several times.

I will make my way to him the way a narrative always makes its way to the next shift in plot.

The weekends change all that. For two days, there’s a noticeable shift in energy as another person, namely my husband, moves through the house with me. Though he’s literally sharing the same space as me, we are not in the same space. That is to say he hasn’t reached a point in his life where introspection seems not only healthy but necessary.

He’s not doing anything disruptive, mind you. Our energies simply aren’t in alignment. I can feel that fact when I’m in the same room with him. Susan Zwinger, a poet and writer of place, says there are “57 or so” ways we get information into our bodies. Our senses, according to Zwinger, include electromagnetism, barometric pressure, humidity and temperature (to which, as a former Seattle dweller, I would definitely add light, or lack thereof). Zwinger challenges the writers she works with to move beyond the five conventionally recognized senses and incorporate the entire suite of senses into their lives and work.

I don’t know what I am picking up on, exactly, that has sent me into my own room today, where I can write and think and pay attention without feeling divided between where I’m currently at and where my husband’s currently at. Part of me wants to drop everything and go to him, enter into his way of being, which is largely about doing things in the world, not being in the world.

For now, I continue to sit here, staring out my window at two blooming shrubs whose genus I don’t even know. Zwinger would advise me to find out what the shrubs are, to push for specificity with regard to any element that enters my writing. As she says, you will never invite readers into your story without concrete details, ones they can relate to.

“Write for the person who has never been off the canyon,” she advises.

Zwinger also says journaling is “the mind made visible.” I don’t journal, exactly, other than keeping lists. Nothing like Zwinger’s artful Technicolor notebooks whose pages are filled with facts, drawings, watercolors, clippings and other information she calls on when she sits down to work on her books.

I do write, however. I have no idea if writing makes my mind visible, to me or anyone else. I like to think writing is a way of planting a marker, like a kairn, one that signals, “On this small and seemingly insignificant day, I was here. I took part. I belonged to the world.” Increasingly, I hope my writing also lets people in—either into my life or into some aspect of their own lives.

Now the sun is moving through the room, sneaking up on my feet. My dog sits next to me. She’s a faithful companion when I write. When I’m not writing, her new thing is running up to me from across the room, licking my ankle once, and then running away. I have no idea what that’s about. Maybe it’s her kairn, her way of noting that she’s here, she’s taking part, she belongs. Maybe it’s her way of saying a repeated thank you to me for saving her life.

At some point, I will leave my room. A feeling will stir inside me, like a little storm that passes through a small, nameless town on a summer day. Who knows which of my 57 senses will trigger the stirring. It will not only move through me, but also move me: I will rise from my desk and pull the bedroom door toward my body, just enough to see my husband sitting in a chair we call “Mr. Comfy.” He might be coding on his laptop or even asleep, his legs propped up on the oversized ottoman, Mr. Comfy leaning so far back it looks like it’s about to careen into the living room wall.

I will make my way to him the way a narrative always makes its way to the next shift in plot. I might brush my hand on his cheek, or do nothing but watch him. That’s when he will be included in my practice of attention. In that moment, we will breathe in, one shared breath, the whole world breathing with us—both the parts we can name and the parts that, at least for now, remain nameless.