Heavenly Mountains

Photo by: Sara Lejour

I was waiting for the bus this morning, cursing the weather and wishing I had put new songs on my iPod. It didn't seem like it was going to be a good day for iSight, to say the least. The bus finally pulled up, after what felt like ages (which in reality was about 4 minutes) and I climbed on, more than enthusiastic to be out of the frosty morning air. I took a seat in the back, facing the end of the bus. My mind wandered and I thought about the rough week past; all the things weighing down on my shoulders that morning, not to mention my heavy school bag, reminding me of all the schoolwork looming in the next week and a half. *Sigh* Soon, we were traversing the bridge, the sun still low in the sky, rising lazily on this frosty November morning. As my clouded mood continued brewing, manifesting itself in the furrow of my brow, I was blinded by bright rays of sunshine. I turned to find the source of this unexpected light, and what I saw then blew my mind. Instantly, what I had been ignoring for the past 2 minutes crossing the bridge transported me out of my foul mood and into a place of raw emotion and pure gratitude. Before me, just outside the bus window, forming past the St-Lawrence shoreline and just beyond the bustle of city living was what I can only describe as a heavenly mountain range. The sky was the always-beautiful color of morning: orange, yellow and pink. The sun was peeking shyly from behind Mont St-Hyacinth, stretching its bright rays in all directions. Next to the mountain, spreading out majestically on both sides, were clouds. But not just any clouds. They were low, resembling the mountain in height and seemingly mass, coming out of the horizon as if they were rising from the earth. They were the kind of fluffy magnificent clouds that make you want to cry, laugh, giggle and rest all at the same time. The kind that make you realize that without a single doubt, the world in a fascinating and incredible place full of wondrous treasures. As I recovered from the beauty of this sight, as I took it all in as a whole, I realized how beautiful our world truly is. As I watched this marvel slowly slip out of my sight behind the concrete and steel of the bridge, I was reminded of how much I love watching the world. Looking around when I have a moment and taking in all the wonderful things around that most of the time, we in our busy lives tend to overlook. These heavenly mountains forming next to an earthly one just breathed an air of meditation into my heart. I felt the need to take a moment to reflect on the beauty that was momentarily staring me dead in the face. It's not often that we are provided with such obvious magnificence today, however, things like this remind us that there is something stunning just waiting to be appreciated everywhere we go. We need only look. So, today's post is more to explain the purpose of iSight. This blog is about observing, or "world watching" as I'd like to say. Obviously the title, iSight, is a play on words/letters, more obviously referring to eye sight, what we use to see. The fact is that sure, we use our eyesight every day, but how often do we really, REALLY look? So why did I replace the eye with "i"? Because to really look, we must look first inside ourselves and find a simplicity in our soul. We must go back to basics and remember how to appreciate without rushing around, thinking ahead, speaking... It takes way too much effort for us to enjoy what's already provided for us, no strings attached. So the "i" represents the I in eye. The I we don't use enough anymore when using our eyes. Let's go back basics. Let's rediscover the "i" in eyesight, and observe the world. Even if just for a moment, when the light dances in a mesmerizing way across your dashboard driving to work, or for an hour as you watch a parent playing with their child at the beach. Take the time to slow down and admire the beauty we are too busy to appreciate anymore. It quiets the soul. It's like your own private mediation every day, or multiple times a day even, with incredibly satisfying and addictive results. Once you are reminded of or introduced to the beauty of observing, there's nothing else like it after a hard morning, or a long day. So now, you understand iSight, and what it's all about. I thank you so much for reading, and I am always grateful for constructive criticism or helpful comments. Enjoy! :)

The Man With The Many Pages

I was walking through the mall, listening to my iPod, when I decided I needed to take a seat. Exhaustion suddenly setting in after this realization, I knew that any old seat would do just fine. A nice two-seater opened up near the card store, perfect for a lone person looking to rest their feet and do some studying. I sat down and settled in. When I began looking up, my eyes slowly darted from my own open book in front of me, to the floor in front of my neighbor's table. From there, my gaze traveled up slowly, taking in the set-up this man had going on. The piles of neatly folded and perfectly paper-clipped newspapers on the table's base, the pile of note paper, heavily noted upon, stacked on top of a filled-to-the-brim rucksack, the discarded and cut-up newspapers strewn messily on the seat opposite his, the pile of colorful paper clips littering the table top, the scissors and ruler lined up flawlessly beside his unmoving elbows, the neat stack of unrevised newspapers to his left, and finally the perfectly trimmed newspaper clipping he held in his perfectly still hands. It was quite the sight to behold. This man, quite obviously on a mission, held the newspaper clipping with such delicacy, as if it were the frailest of butterfly wings in the entire world. It was his duty to keep his fingers stable on this article as he read it, half out loud, and nodded to himself in what can only be described as immense passion and reminiscence. Once he had read through the whole article, carefully examining each word and meticulously trimming the already flawless edges to utter right-angled perfection, he folded the article in such a way that made the cards in the Hallmark across the way blush. He singled out four yellow paperclips of the exact same shade and size and clipped the four corners of the perfectly folded article in a way that seemed calculated and precise to a paramount degree only he could understand. He placed this paper-clipped wonder with the others on the pile at the base of the table like it was the most important thing he'd ever do, and returned to the top of the table. He took a moment to nod to himself, and then carefully unfolded one of the unrevised newspapers on his left. He looked over both sides of the page carefully, inspecting it like an ancient parchment in a museum archives laboratory. On one side was car advertisements, on the other, a picture of some chaos caused by what I assume to be some weather disaster such as a hurricane or a tornado. When his eyes fell on the picture of the weather-induced damage, his face fell with solemn determination, and he began to mark the border of the article and its accompanying picture with the ruler he had placed so purposefully at his side. Once the border was marked and the ruler returned to its original resting place, he took the scissors and began to slowly cut away the marked-off edges of this new-found treasure. Once cut, he held this article in his hands; once again as if it were the most fragile artifact known to man. And the same process ensued. As I sat there, watching this man work, I was overwhelmed by the glimpse I was getting into a life I had no understanding of. The woman next to me with her face buried in a romance novel, sipping on Starbucks coffee, and the man in my peripherals with his headphones in, rocking out to whatever jam was traveling down his ear canals...Those people I could understand. What was currently showing on the surface of the people around me, was also what was dominating their present lives in that very moment. However, I knew very well that what was unfolding, and re-folding - very precisely might I add - before me in the man with the many pages was beyond my understanding. There was something ravishing about him, striking, resounding. So loud that I felt compelled to both run away and sit there and observe for hours. I was torn between fleeing the unknown and allowing myself to imagine the possible reasons for such intricate behavior. It was obvious to me that there was something different about this man. Today, it would more commonly be referred to as something "special"; bizarre, retarded or creepy. However, I hesitate to call it any of those things for the simple reason that he, and all that he represented to me that afternoon, made me question what normalcy really was. This man was so absorbed in what he was doing, so focused, that not even the incredulous stares and oblivious onlooker's gazes were phasing him. He had a fantastic routine, and a purpose so strong that he was eager beyond belief to be doing whatever it was he was doing. How many of us can honestly say we've EVER been so invested in something. In our whole lives? Hardly anything grabs and holds our attentions like that in this fast-paced, judgmental world. As I continued to observe him, I wondered if maybe there was a great deal to be learned from him. I saw the stack of heavily-filled note sheets that he would consult once in a while, and even add notes to every so often. I saw the way he poured his whole being into every movement; every word he read, every time he counted the finished papers, every fold he pressed out, every shard of paper he trimmed off the edge of these insanely meaningful articles. He was committed to what he was doing, and nothing could stop him. And he was successful! After an hour, he counted his finished products once again, and the numbers 47... 48... 49 sounded quietly from his discreet mouth as he carefully flipped each article by the brightly-colored paperclip on the top right-hand corner. When I had first sat down, his current out-loud count had amounted to 15. Regardless of if he had started at zero or not, he had done this same meticulous process over and over 34 times since I sat down. Not to mention taking notes and stopping after every few articles to sip at his tiny McDonald's coffee.This man perplexed me. He mesmerized me. He fascinated me. I wanted to ask what he was doing, admire his work up close. But rational fear and proper conduct were still present inside of me. Every person who walked by wore that fear on their sleeves. They detoured around his table, even made snide remarks and laughed out loud. Every passing person who took a shot at him angered me. But he didn't even notice. That says something about dwelling... Obviously I lacked the self-confidence he possessed to be able to not give a single thought to anyone around him. There was just too much about him to question. His kind, warm eyes and the way he stretched out his arms and hands after every article, as if running a long-distance race; as if maintaining a finely-tuned machine for a big job. There was the way he spoke to himself, and made facial expressions for each and every single article he cut out. It was the way he place things with such care, and used his rough, somewhat stubby fingers to do precision work that even a seamstress would be proud of. There was so much... So, so much more to this man than what met the eye, and what met the eye was already pretty staggering to most who passed him. Finally, he decided it was time to pack up. As immersed as he was in his project, one glance at his watch at the perfect moment snapped him out of his incredible work ethic immediately, and clean-up began. He had a bag for everything, and a certain place for every single stack and tool he had been using. The scissors and ruler were tucked away in a special tool belt/pouch, the paperclips in a pretty blue box, the stacks of notes and folded articles each wrapped in two plastic bags, kept in re-usable grocery bags and then stashed purposefully in the rucksack. The messily strewn newspaper clippings were assembled in a neat pile - for garbage anyway - and put into a bag as well, which he then took care to discard in recycling. He packed everything up in a tight and organized fashion, and then proceeded to scope the bustling crowds passing the food court tables. He spotted an elderly couple seemingly looking for a place to sit, and escorted them to his seat. They thanked him and he smiled brightly, cracking a joke - in a totally normal and sophisticated voice, might I add - about saving them a seat every week if they were good. Then off he strode, with a coolness that was incredibly surprising for a man who had spent the past hour, at least, clipping newspapers with such control it hurt me to think about it. And just like that, he was gone. I was left to ponder what I had just witnessed and hope I could sort my thought process enough later to write about him. There was so much wrapping around my neurons that I had a lot of trouble sorting through my hypothesis. He was more than just an average Joe. There was something distinct about his personality and character that I couldn't quite place. And there was something immediately striking about his mental state. Raising all the questions circling around in my brain, I began to clumsily pack up my things. As I traveled down the escalators in deep thought, I felt like I had just been given a unique opportunity to re-evaluate some paramount misconceptions I had in a completely different light. I knew I had to share this experience, if only for the satisfaction of saying I did indeed share my thoughts on this perplexing matter out loud. The man with the many pages had knocked me out of my comfort zone, pulled me out of the fast lane and required me to think again. He was remarkable and noteworthy for sure.