The Lost Art of Looking Up
We walk through our world with our heads bowed, not in prayer, but in devotion to a small, glowing rectangle. Our thumbs scroll, our eyes flicker, and the real, vast, and unpredictable world around us shrinks to the size of a screen.
But there’s magic happening right above us, and we’re missing it.
I noticed it the other day when I was stranded on a bench, my phone battery finally dead. With nothing left to do, I was forced to simply… be. And that’s when I saw it: the intricate architecture of a spiderweb strung between two lampposts, glittering with morning dew. I saw the way the wind tousled the leaves of an old oak tree, each one dancing to a silent tune. I saw the effortless glide of a bird on a current, a masterpiece of physics happening in real time.
These are the moments that don’t demand our attention but desperately deserve it. They are the quiet connections that remind us we are part of a larger, living tapestry. The constant digital feed sells us a world of curated perfection and manufactured outrage, but the sky offers ever-changing clouds. Our notifications promise connection, but a moment of eye contact and a smile with a stranger delivers it.
So, let this be a gentle nudge. Let your phone die. Leave it in your pocket on purpose. Stop for just five minutes and just look.
Look up at the way the light hits a building you’ve passed a hundred times. Notice the subtle shift in the seasons in the branches of a tree. Watch the chaotic, beautiful ballet of people moving through their day.
The timeline can wait. The updates will still be there. The world in your palm is a poor substitute for the one that’s right in front of you, waiting patiently for you to finally see it. All you have to do is look up.