The first seal
The first time we saw a seal in our bay we were transfixed. We hooted and hollered. We called relatives and emailed friends. We couldn’t believe it. Wow—a seal!
Now, twenty-some years later, when I glance out the window and see a seal pop its head up out the water, I barely notice. Or if I do I think, “Oh, another seal. That’s nice.” Why the incredible attenuation in my response? Is it that seals are less interesting or less cute these days? Of course not. The seals are just the same. It’s I who have changed. In this case I don’t think that familiarity has bred contempt. Just jadedness. After seeing the five-hundredth Sealy paddling around the bay, the sight is simply not as alluring.
When Annie and I were starting to date, every time we were together—watching a movie at the Roseway, having a croissant at the Rimsky-Korsakoffee House, taking a walk in Laurelhurst Park–I felt an even greater thrill than when I saw my first seal. But now, after all these years, I don’t text my friends to tell them about this incredible woman I’ve just been with. Even though I love and treasure her more now than when we were newly together.
People sometimes mourn that they don’t continue to feel the intensity of first encounters. But maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s a blessing that life isn’t so buzzy all the time–constantly thinking of our new seal, or our new love, might lead to a perpetual semi-frenzied state. It could be that we would pay a high psychological and physiological price if we were so constantly activated. To say nothing of being distracted from the many quotidian tasks clamoring for our attention.
Still, it would be great to occasionally recapture those heady days of The First Seal or The First Kiss. So how can we manage that? Well, in terms of human relationships I guess the infrastructure is fairly well established: we celebrate anniversaries, look at the wedding album, and put precious mementos from The Early Days on our dresser. And we spontaneously bring home flowers or go out to dinner. If we remember to follow the script, these activities can certainly bring alive some of those wonderful memories.
But with non-relationship peak experiences—the first time I drove a car by myself, the first summer the fig tree we planted bore fruit and, yes, The First Seal, the situation is more fraught. We simply don’t have off-the-shelf rituals designed to evoke those feelings. That’s a shame, since reliving such memories can bring great joy. So maybe we should institute some recollection rituals. Maybe a sort of Valentine’s Day for the celebration of first events. But this would probably be rather unwieldy since everyone’s important first events are so different. And it’s hard to think of a generic Hallmark card that would work for celebrating either The First Seal or The First Fruit.
Speaking of “firsts,” here’s a possibility. Maybe on the first day of every month (when my family all say “White Rabbits” to each other to bring good luck) I should try this routine: I’ll walk around the house and consciously look at all the paintings and photographs that I normally pass by without a thought. And really look at them, and recall what drew me to acquire and display them in the first place, and bask in the glow of those feelings.
Without formal institutionalization, an alternative might be to make a real effort to see familiar things with new—or in this case, old–eyes. When I put the key in the ignition, just once in a while I should recall how it amazing it felt to do so for the first time. And also realize how blessed I am to be able to drive now with so little effort or anxiety. And occasionally, when I see Sealy pop up out of the water I should make a point of stopping what I’m doing, really look at it, and remember how miraculous it seemed—and yes, still is–to live in a place where I can see seals out my window.
Come to think of it, Annie already does these sorts of things; I now recall that it’s one of the reasons I was drawn to her in the first place. I’ll try to really remember, and treasure, that.