“Busie old foole, unruly Sunne, / Why dost thou thus, /Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?”

Boni and I were returning from Montreal to Ottawa one March evening. It had snowed the previous day and, as we drove past snow-laden fields, the sinking sun set the sky on fire with a beautiful auburn hue that filled me with such peace. Though I did not want to think about it at the time, I could not help wondering what made the scene so beautiful.

Although its auburn was most striking, the sky paraded degrees of colours that complemented one another. There were hues of orange, gold and red that draped the sky majestically. The snow’s pure white and the pale green conifers all played their part in creating a truly breath-taking scene.

Why was I so moved by this scene? It was peaceful, hopeful and joyful. I yearn for all these qualities. When I looked at the scene, it was not the scene but rater I was filled with peace, hope and joy. This made the scene moving. The scene was beautiful, though, for more than just its colour combination and my reaction to it.

There was a oneness about the whole thing. The fields and trees and setting sun and I complimented each other so harmoniously that I felt that we were all part of the same puzzle, part of the same design and fabric. I was gazing at the scene. Was it also gazing at me? The scene, as an integrated whole, had a life of its own that I was not interpreting into it. It was looking at me in wonder.

 Although I was thinking about the scene, the scene was not thinking about me but was simply beholding me. Was this the source of my peace? I felt a familiarity with the scene’s gaze. Not only had I felt this before but also I knew the gaze and I felt that I belonged to it. I wanted to make my home in the scene. In those moments, it and I were one in the sense that we both shared the activity of gazing.

My analysis, then, had three depths. I noticed, firstly, how colours and snowy fields and trees complimented each other. I attributed to the scene, secondly, human qualities that I have and deeply yearn for. I felt, thirdly, a certain oneness and familiarity with the scene that was movingly expressed by gazing and being gazed at. As interesting as these observations were, I regretted having analyzed a scene so rare and beautiful. I felt robbed of my enjoyment of it.

 What did I learn? I learned what it means to gaze. This word, though, is inappropriate to my experience because even it implies thinking on some level. The beautiful scene, though, taught me a looking that was not a thoughtful gazing, gawking, gaping, seeing, staring or watching. The right word, I think, is “beholding,” which literally means to “hold in view” and communicates well the deepest level of my experience.

We are most familiar with a thing when we hold it and touch it. I felt akin to the awesome scene because it was simply holding me by its very gaze. It was inviting me to do the same. I, however, could not resist taking a step back and analyzing the experience into categories. Thanks to my analysis, though, I realize the importance of simple and thoughtless beholding.

Analysis certainly has an esteemed place in philosophy, theology and the other sciences. Sometimes, however, analysis teaches us the importance of not analyzing. It sometimes analyzes itself out of the picture. True prayer, according to some, is a thoughtless beholding. As Ignatius beheld Rome’s star-studded skies with tears in his eyes, I think he was praying in this way.