Beyond Curiosity

Beckoning to reverence all day long

But there’s more than one gateway to reverence…. “Rievaulx Abbey, the High Altar,” Roger Fenton, 1854, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

This was handwritten before pasting it here, and I hope you can feel the slope of my favorite Japanese pen (Sarasanano .3, sepia) and hear the piping of the little birds (nuthatch, titmouse) gathering in the icy morning to flutter and fret at their feeder.

If you’ve worked with me, you may know I’ve relied on the word ‘curiosity’ for many years, a steadfast goad to good action, for both myself and clients, a golden thread that promises kaleidoscopic dopamine treasures just beyond the horizon. And it works beautifully that way, spurring progress towards the most spectacular creative visions.

As a practice, leaning into curiosity gives surprise and inspiration a place to grow, and has shifted my sense of perception over time, which is to say, it’s life-changing. Following, seeking, infusing the unknown with confidence, solidifying hope. It can leave you wonder-struck, whether you curiously choose to take a different route to the grocery store or to change from one creative medium to another, embarking on a new project just to see what happens. Everyone thinks they’re the kind of person who does this, but actually consciously putting curiosity into motion is another thing.

Lately, however, the word ‘reverence’ has presented itself in contrast, arriving imposingly at first, a grand piano that couldn’t fit through the door. But my curiosity about its austerity, and the integrity embedded in this notion, have opened new depths for me.

What’s the difference? For one thing, as Nico put it, “no one has been more curious about birds than Audubon.” So there’s that. Curiosity can be a little heedless. A proprietary sense of right-of-way seeps in, driving towards a goal that may be dissected, stuffed, mounted and displayed in the course of seeking satisfaction. I’ve seen people do this in all sorts of ways, and can feel it in myself, a conquering kind of curiosity that’s not always my best trait.

With ‘reverence,’ a more mysteriously distant regard is baked right into the Latin roots. The “re-” suggests restraint, while ‘vereri’ is the verb ‘to fear, respect, be cautious,’ from the PIE root ‘*wer—‘, giving us aware, wary, ward and warn. Where ‘curiosity’ is a fail-safe green light, reverence insists on taking a step back. It’s a reminder to look again and re-orient towards what’s being perceived, a paradoxical pulling away in order to see more clearly.

Of course, neurologically these perception exercises work in the same way—amplifying your focus on curiosity or on reverence throughout the day means you’ll be surprised by how much of either you receive, as when playing one of those old fashioned family car-trip games. The more punch buggies you see on Route 1, the more punch buggies you see. It’s pretty glorious.

This winter, as a practice, I’ve courted reverence, seeking it all day long in that way that makes the world feel small and vast. I’ve found that translating that into somatics—physically taking a step backwards for another look (listen, etc.) when I feel reverence—adds to the experience, just like you would when encountering a stirring painting.

And nothing would make me more delighted than if you tried it. A proposal: woven through your days find something (a landscape, a person, a doughnut, a sound, a color, a concept) or three things, that inspire you, and try on the feeling of ‘reverence.’ What happens? How does reverence feel when applied to something big? Something small? Something invisible? What happens when you toggle between curiosity and reverence? Can you have both? How does reverence influence curiosity, or what does curiosity bring to reverence? Try taking physical a step back.

And let me know… It’s interesting to write to you in this way that feels both intimate and strangely solitary. So write to me if this idea excites you, or if you’d like to know more about the work I do with clients. I’m here for it all.

Maxime Du Camp’s photograph of the Sphinx (Met Museum), still buried in the desert sands when he snapped it in December, 1849, voyaging around the region with Gustave Flaubert, who was awed by Egypt’s antiquity. “What strikes me above all here is the sensation of what came before,” he wrote, “of what cannot be reduced.”