The Lens Between Us

My animals do not particularly appreciate cell phones.

I cannot tell you how many times something utterly beautiful is happening around here and the moment I reach for my phone, everything changes.

Someone turns away.

Someone walks off.

Someone who has been standing in the most exquisite light suddenly presents me with their rear end.

The moment hasn’t necessarily ended.

I’ve interrupted it.

For a while, this annoyed me. For two reasons. Because I see so many great photos from others.And because I would already see the photograph in my mind.

Oh my God. Look at that. So worth sharing.

But as I reached for my phone, I immediately changed the very thing I was trying to capture.

It always makes me think of Hawk Lady.

Years ago, I stood outside with my Arabian mare Shana, who was recovering from a leg injury. She was quietly grazing beneath a pine tree when I looked up and saw this magnificent hawk sitting on a branch directly above us.

She was close.

And spectacular.

And naturally, I reached for my phone.

I was fumbling around trying to get what I thought would be an incredibly cool photograph when I heard her, clear as day:

You are a writer. There are people better equipped than you to take photographs. Watch closely and then describe it.

Well.

That was clear.

And I knew she didn’t just mean better equipment. She meant people with a better eye for it. People who knew how to use their tools.

She was reminding me of mine.

So I looked.

I noticed her size. Enormous.

The gorgeous brown speckling of her wings.

And her ridiculously light-colored little feathered pantalones.

I watched the way she turned her head, first left, then down, taking in everything below her.

And then she gave me one more thing to write about.

Because Shana was still recovering, I didn’t want her startled into a sudden movement. So I quietly asked Hawk Lady that when she was ready to leave, she would please depart without making a fuss and spooking my girl beneath her.

A moment later, I looked at Shana, who was moving to a new grazing spot.

When I looked back up, Hawk Lady was gone.

I kid you not.

No dramatic swoop.

No flapping of wings.

No startled horse.

Just gone.

Stealthily.

I still take pictures, of course. And every once in a while, one actually captures a little something of what I saw.

But often, when I find myself reaching for the phone, I hear her again:

You are a writer. Observe.

Because Hawk Lady was right. Sometimes the lens that lets other people see the animal is the very thing that changes what there is to see. And maybe staying in our own lane isn’t about limiting ourselves at all. Maybe it’s recognizing the particular way we were built to pay attention.