Last week, when I was showing off my town to visitors, I made sure we stopped at the old Marshall Field’s store. As soon as we pushed through the heavy doors at the Washington Street entrance, our senses were bombarded with all things Christmas. Silver and red ornaments hung opulently from all directions. Early Christmas shoppers were milling about the perfume counter dousing their wrists with Estee Lauder or whatever fragrance is being advertised as the hot scent to be wearing this year. Small tables of Frango mints, in assorted-sized boxes, pre-wrapped in holiday paper, were wedged into the intersections of high traffic aisles.

“Look up,” I said, raising my head up then rolling my eyes in the same direction. With all the commotion on the ground level, I did not want my guests to miss the world’s largest Tiffany glass dome ceiling, the main reason I brought them to this spot.

A few days later, I reflected on another time in my life when I used to give myself these same instructions. “Look up.” I didn’t use these words to help me rally my best thoughts during challenging times. I wasn’t trying to tell myself to look on the bright side of things. Yet, actually looking up after emptying my mind filled me with a feeling of connectedness and oddly led me to my own sort of spiritual optimism.

Maybe ten years ago, I would take myself on a walking meditation almost every morning at around 6:30, before the streets became crowded. As I walked through my neighborhood — west on School Street, north on Campbell, back east on Grace – I would set my focus on different “objects” along my path. An object was anything I saw that occupied space in my consciousness: a fencepost or a flowerpot, a wind chime or window casement. I might have set my gaze on a car tire and then seconds later take in the whole car it belonged to. I would hold my attention on each object for a second or two and count off increasing numbers in my head. I would frame each unique image until it registered in my mind, then let it go and focus on the next thing that came into view.

It was like Roto Rooter-ing my mind. Every image, every object, just poured through me. I never got attached to any thing I saw, no matter how captivating the sparkling arc of water was as it sprayed from the lawn sprinkler or how much my neighbor’s full mailbox seemed to suggest a story.

And when my mind was good and empty, I would tell myself, “Look up.” I did, and I would see amazing things. Or, maybe what I saw just seemed amazing to me because I was so empty of thoughts and I was so ready to see things from above ground-level. I remember looking up to see old pairs of gym shoes, tied at the laces, hanging over a telephone wire. How did they get up there? I used to look up at the perfect time to see planes flying directly over me, and I swear I didn’t hear any engines hum. Or, I’d look up to see a blanket of clouds that I decided looked like Ted Koppel’s hair. I just knew that when I’d look up, there’d be something to see.

“Look up.”

I’d tell myself to “look up” mostly to change perspective. And choosing to change your perspective is no small thing.