To See Takes Time

How to do something over and over again and get a different result

Nobody sees a flower really; it is so small. We haven’t time, and to see takes time— like to have a friend takes time.

I knew right when I saw it I needed it. It looked how eucalyptus feels when it hits your nostrils. It invited a fresh start. New but also wise, like it had lived many lives.

I floated over to the shelf and stared until my eyes glazed over and the cover blurred until all I saw was a blue fog. It felt nice to let myself stare into the void. (It’s peaceful to do this when you’re alone.)

I blinked until it came back into focus and yawned like I was at home and not at the MoMA Design Store in Midtown.

I picked it up. Even without opening it I could sense that it was welcoming me without pandering to me. It was smiling without smirking. Almost flirting with me, but in a way that feels so earnest it’s almost embarrassing. Isn’t it beautiful to feel this way about an inanimate object?

But what I loved the very most was the title: To See Takes Time.

God there is nothing more soothing than a really good book title. Even if you don’t read it you know that owning it has already shaped you.

I liked the way this book shaped me. I also like what plopping it right down in the middle of my living room said about me. People would come into my home to find me cultured and interesting, but in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

To See Takes Time. The name was so beautiful to me.

It lodged somewhere I couldn’t quite place. Resonance is like that. It bypasses your brain and goes straight to your bones sort of nestling in there.

It’s been there for years now.

This book has moved neighborhoods and cities with me. Collecting coffee rings, quietly watching every mundane moment and life altering event. Right there when we found out I was pregnant and when we brought our newborn home for the first time. Right there through both seasons of Severance. So much life has been lived around this book.

These days I’m spending significant chunks of the day on my living room floor (tummy time etc). After years of being right under my nose, there it was. Meeting my gaze. I look at it all the time, but I rarely see it.

I pick it up like I did the first time except this time I think it knows more about me than I know about it.

I’ve opened it before, like I know I have. But have I? I flip through the pages and realize I don’t recognize most of them. I show them to Jonah. His eyes scan the page until they freeze and his pupils dilate. He is taken by the charcoal.

He stares for a long time. So long that I wonder if he is staring into the void or if maybe he is an art prodigy.

I join him and resist the urge to look away or take a picture. It’s hard, but I want to see what he sees. And to see takes time.

I start reading:

O’Keeffe drew the same shell over and over. The same flower. The same curve of desert horizon.

Not because she couldn’t move on — but because staying revealed more.

There’s a quiet revolution in letting yourself repeat something until you’re finally inside it.

Repetition isn’t stuckness. It’s deepening. To see takes time.

I cannot believe this has been right under my nose. YEARS of looking but not seeing. Something in me knew it was beautiful the whole time, but now I am discovering it again through fresh eyes, mine and his.

We look through this book daily now. Sometimes it feels monotonous, but sometimes it feels like a meditation. Because now that I’ve seen it, I have to wonder how much deeper it can get. Right?

I decided not to use any color until It was impossible to do what I wanted to do in black & white. The skin would wear off my fingers from rubbing the charcoal over and over again. — Georgia O’keeffe