One often hears of a horse that shivers with terror, or of a dog that howls at something a man’s eyes cannot see, and men who live primitive lives where instinct does the work of reason are fully conscious of many things that we cannot perceive at all. As life becomes more orderly, more deliberate, the supernatural world sinks farther away.
—William Butler Yeats
For the last half an hour, while I listened to the Parkers relate their story of the past few months, Sabrina stretched cozily by Matthew’s side, just at the other end of the sofa. Through half-closed eyelids, drifting in and out of sleep, and ever so softly purring off and on, she stirred now and then to consider me with mild interest. Just across the table in an old leather armchair, Rosalind stretched comfortably in Angela’s lap and preened her thick black mane and coat in long, sweeping strokes with the barbs of her tongue, while Angie teased out a couple of mats from beneath her ears with a wire brush. With the glow of flames from the freshly stoked fire, toys tucked tidily into a chest, and mugs of steaming cocoa on the table just in front of us, the scene was very much idyllic—almost out of a storybook—and the tension I felt from my rush to arrive seemed to melt from my shoulders and then drift off.
Though, in point of fact, the cats weren’t siblings, Angie and Matt had adopted them both on the same day five years earlier from a small rural shelter in upstate New York. Barely ten weeks old at the time, amidst the chaos of mingled litters—with the bravest ones nudging forward to be scratched—little Sabrina and Rosalind so devotedly clung to the couple that the Parkers gave in to returning home with both to complete their newly formed family. In the time that it took Matt to drive back to Brooklyn, with both kittens tuckered out side by side on a plush downy blanket stuffed inside their crate, the two had become devoted sisters. Adjusting to life in the city as indoor cats without a hitch, in a matter of days the kittens had laid claim to every nook and corner of the Parkers’ flat. With space being tight in the neat, cramped apartment and one or another forever underfoot, sitting in the empty chairs at breakfast time and dinner, nudging beneath the blankets in the middle of the night, or digging in the litter box while humans used the toilet, all learned to share the flat equally.
A couple of years later with the cats then fully grown, Angie and Matt began trying in earnest to add another member to the family. Though Sabrina and Rosalind had mellowed as they grew, the conditions of their life tucked together in the flat had shifted from cozy to uncomfortable. When a two-bedroom co-op straight across the park with twice as much room and a view opened up, the Parkers leapt with gusto for the larger place to nest. And as before, though with much more space to share, the cats adjusted blithely to their brand-new home, graciously accepting each and every room as theirs.
Fast-forward twelve months, when the couple came home from the hospital with baby Mia cradled in their arms, and the cats seemed curious but mostly unimpressed with the newest addition to their family. Accustomed as kittens to living in close quarters, they shared the extra bedroom with the baby generously. Whether Mia nursed with Angie in her rocking chair, changed diapers on the dresser while her daddy sang her songs, napped in her crib, or cried plaintively all night, the cats were only too willing to supervise from the nursery rug.
The first hints to Angie that there might be a problem appeared only recently, when Mia turned three or a little before then, give or take a month. In those years in between, both cats honored their duties, keeping tabs on the baby as she toddled then walked. But Angela wondered as Mia grew older and became independent and strong if Sabrina—just maybe—felt she was less needed or even a third wheel with Mia and Roz. For while Rosalind steadfastly kept up with Mia and devotedly stayed by her side night and day, Sabrina seemed to grow a bit reserved. More and more at story time, and then at other times of day, Sabrina would leave Rosalind to chaperone, while she withdrew to Matt and Angie’s room on her own to snuggle in her favorite nest beneath their king-size bed. And finally, just a few weeks ago, as her absence grew painfully obvious, Matthew took Sabrina to their family vet.
In spite of a thorough physical exam and a full set of tests that were sent to the lab, “She seems to be healthy,” Dr. Stouffer confessed. She could find nothing medically wrong with Sabrina. In fact, she appeared to be in excellent health, having gained a pound since her most recent visit, barely six months earlier. Clearly, in spite of her seclusion in the bedroom, she’d managed to eat quite heartily. Still convinced that Sabrina’s change was meaningful, but at an utter loss to offer any reason why, Dr. Stouffer recommended that they call me at my office.
The image of a reclusive cat huddled beneath a king-size bed clashed with the one just a few feet away. While she peacefully dozed on the sofa by Matthew, I mulled over the reasons that might explain this standoffish twist in Sabrina’s behavior: sounds of construction from the neighboring building; noises of sirens or traffic outside, or maybe of passing dogs barking and baying; an electric device in the nursery or elsewhere—baby monitor, toys, humidifier, radio—tensions with Angela, Matthew, or Mia; conflict between her and Rosalind; or perhaps some vague illness, still silent and brewing. While I sat on the sofa with this differential, weighing each likelihood with all that I’d heard, the answer at once became all too apparent.
With a burst of shrill giggles and a flurry of footsteps, the front door flew open as Mia returned with a young blond-haired woman I guessed was her nanny. Shedding her coat in a blur of excitement and flicking her rain boots off onto the floor, Mia ran to her mommy and tugged on her arm, insisting on sharing her adventures of the morning. While Matt introduced me to their helper, Nanny Kate, and Mia recounted a game that she’d played with her best friend, Sophie, in the rain at the park, I discreetly kept an eye on the cats. Though awake and alert from the noise and the bustle, they both looked content as they rested unfazed. Likewise, when Mia ran up to her daddy, still telling her story while nuzzling up and wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug, Sabrina, though watchful, didn’t seem too concerned.
It was not until Mia turned her focus to the cats, with joyous squeals of “Kitty!” as she forgot to end her tale, that I saw what I needed to confirm my suspicions. In an instant Sabrina braced all of her body. Tucking herself in a tight little bundle and turning her gaze through those squinting green eyes to me with a pitifully doleful expression, she endured the affection as best she could. But the instant that Mia ran over to Rosalind (with equal affection for both of her cats), Sabrina instinctively seized her good fortune and swiftly but silently fled from the room.
After asking her parents to wait back with Mia, I quietly traced where Sabrina’s path led. True to what Matthew and Angie had told me, I found her nestled in a burrow far beneath the bed, tucked in between an assortment of boxes. As I lay on the rug with the bed skirt draped on me, she eyed me intently with quiet regard. When I made no attempt to lure or retrieve her, after another minute or two, she rested her head on an old pair of slippers. And as we both lay there, calmly watching each other, we listened to giggles and shrieks of delight from where she’d escaped, now directed toward Rosalind.
When I returned to the family a few minutes later, Mia danced by, shuffling off to the nursery, with Rosalind placidly draped in her arms. Given that image and all that I’d seen, the cause of Sabrina’s behavior was clear. Yet, since Angie and Matt had never mentioned their daughter’s keen zeal for their cats, I considered how best to broach what I’d noticed.
“I can see,” I began, looking back toward the nursery, “that Mia truly adores both her kitties.
“So, I was just wondering,” I said after a pause, “how often does she really get a chance to play with them?”
As I reached for my cup and sat back in the sofa, I was fully unprepared for Angie’s response. “Oh, she follows them constantly, day in and day out, whenever she’s home—well, whenever she can.”
When I turned to their nanny, who had joined us from the nursery, she nodded discreetly with an understanding glance.
“But apart from when she returns from adventures—her walks in the park, playdates, and such—how often is she this excited to see them?”
Angie’s reply, quite simply put, stunned me. “Are you kidding? It’s like that pretty much all day long.”
As I sat for a moment and let her answer sink in, I felt the full weight of Sabrina’s dilemma. It was easy for me to empathize with my patient. With a devoted admirer (one who looked like a giant) chasing me tirelessly from morning to night—not to mention, quite often, with loud squeals of pleasure—I, too, would desperately want to escape.
“Between the two cats, does she have a favorite?”
“Not really.” Matt shrugged, and then added with a smile, “Though most often, I’d say she ends up with Roz.”
Noticing the nursery was eerily quiet, I asked, “Could we peek at what they’re up to right now?”
Without hesitation, they offered, “Of course!” while standing together and leading the way.
Looking in from the doorway, I could not help but smile at the storybook scene playing out in the room. With a blanket wrapped around her like a posh winter coat, Rosalind lay comfortably purring on the rug. Across from her sat Mia, primly pouring cups of pretend tea. Completing the circle sat two favorite dolls, a velvet Peter Rabbit and a well-worn teddy bear. And in the center between all her special tea guests, Mia had properly laid out a spread with mock jars of jams, biscuits, cookies, and bread.
While we took in the scene with amusement and pleasure, I could only marvel at Rosalind’s poise. With her soft, rumbling purrs and a placid expression, she clearly delighted in all the attention. Yet what touched me more was her good-natured deference to each of young Mia’s fancies and whims. All at once, then, it struck me: Roz took on the role of deftly deflecting attention away from her sister when Mia wanted to play. And though I admit I cannot know for certain, as I grew to know Roz in the following months, I believe she did so with selfless intention, acting out of kindness and compassion for her sister.
As Matt, Angie, and I joined the group on the rug, I tried to convey Sabrina’s perspective. Explaining how squeals, play, and even affection can sometimes be quite daunting to a small cat, I suggested a way to encourage Sabrina to join with the family more comfortably. We decided to name the new game “whisper kitty.” Each time that Mia wished to play with Sabrina, she would speak very softly—in the quietest voice imaginable—and then wait to see how Sabrina responded. If she left, so be it; if she didn’t, they’d reward her by gently tossing treats to her. In place of all her lavish hugs, Mia would offer the wisp of a touch—the lightest of strokes to her forehead or back—as a way of giving Sabrina her love.
“Most kitties,” I offered, “are much more perceptive and sensitive than we might even imagine.” Impassioned cuddles and kisses are human—not traits we see in the feline world. And though many cats adore being snuggled, a soft voice and gentle touch are better for others. More than just giving love, expressing our love calls for sensitivity to how others perceive what we’re offering them.
Shifting their focus onto Sabrina, I pointed out how, in spite of her hiding, she wanted to stay with the family. Even with Mia’s abounding élan, Sabrina contentedly lay where she was until she had no choice but to be hugged. So to better encourage Sabrina to stay wherever the family may be in the house, we would set up safe resting spots in several places. With cat beds and pillows just beyond Mia’s reach—on dressers, cabinets, and upper bookshelves—Sabrina could rest undisturbed while also being closer to the family.
As I put on my coat when it was time to leave, I worried how the Parkers and their kitties would fare with the changes they’d be making in the coming weeks. Though I had little doubt we could help Sabrina, our success depended most upon their sensitivity. How earnestly would they try on a cat’s perspective? Would they adjust their lives enough to help Sabrina feel secure? For Mia, could this new way of showing affection nurture the passion she felt for her kitties? I knew the coming weeks would tell.
One month later, after knocking at their door, I stood sweeping snow from my overcoat as I nervously waited for someone to answer. Try as I did, it was hard to imagine how they had managed with all of our plans and what our next steps would be if we had failed. Knowing this morning I’d visit at naptime, I wasn’t surprised when Matt opened the door and whispered hello without Angie beside him. Admittedly though, as I gave him my coat and we walked from the entryway into the hall, I struggled to make out his facial expression. Then just as we passed it, the nursery door opened; Angie stepped out and reached for my hand.
I could feel the tears welling as I stood in the doorway. Mia lay sound asleep in her bed. That peaceful look of her face on the pillow reminded me of my own daughter’s that morning, as I left before dawn to catch the first train. Down by her legs, among folds of blankets, Sabrina and Rosalind nestled side by side, sleepily watching us through half-shut eyes.
The three of us stood there in silence together only a minute or so, I would guess, listening to the tick of the clock; the faintest hint of a now-and-then purr; and the soft, murmured breathing of a three-year-old sleeping. Then I felt a tug gently on my sleeve, and I followed Angela into the hall.
As we sat in the kitchen and Matt brewed some coffee, I learned how Mia, with almost no coaching, had embraced my advice with that sense of adventure she brought to all that she did with her cats. The effect on Sabrina was swift and dramatic. Almost at once, they noticed when Mia would play with her toys in the living room, Sabrina began to linger nearby and watch from her perch on an upper bookshelf. With Mia speaking in the softest of voices along with some generous coaxing with treats, over time Sabrina crept from her roost down to the floor, more comfortably hovering closer and closer.
Excited by the changes that she saw in Sabrina, Mia took the game of “whisper kitty” further than we’d planned—talking softly to her parents when she wished to make a point, dressing up dear Rosalind a bit less in her games, and tiptoeing around the house at most times of the day.
Rosalind, too, became even more present, not just in body but also in mind. To both Matt and Angie she seemed more relaxed and content with Sabrina once again by her side. When Mia was gone, they spent more time together and when she was home they took on their old roles as nannies (or maybe, perhaps, more as chaperones). And the other night, once Mia was dressed in jammies and ready for bed, the two cats, as a pair, followed her to the nursery. Then while Matt tucked her in and began his story, Roz and Sabrina both jumped in the bed. And the three fell asleep curled up side by side.
Sensitivity is a state of being aware and responsive to our world and those around us, as well as to ourselves. More than observing, for us to be sensitive we must grasp from each moment as much as we can. To do so, of course, we must draw from our senses—what we see with our eyes, hear with our ears, touch, taste, and smell, even feel in our gut—and bring these together to form an impression of what is occurring inside and around us. Yet our senses, indeed, don’t paint the full picture but merely a fragment of all that exists.
Bats hunt for mosquitoes with sonar we can’t hear as we watch them dart to and fro through the night. While we snuggle together watching a movie, our dogs see it more as a series of pictures flickering past when projected on the screen, more like the first silent films at the theater. When after a thunderstorm we gaze out our window at the brilliance of a rainbow as the sun breaks through the clouds, our cats view a pastel version missing reds and greens. Every species that exists has adapted their senses to view the world from a different perspective, unique from all others. And what we perceive from our vantage point determines how we experience our world.
Consider, for a moment, our neighbor’s cat, Belinda, as she first wakes in the morning while her family still sleeps. In the early pre-light hours of dawn, with only the palest blush of purple beginning to color the eastern sky, she slips through her cat door, pads across the lawn, and fades into the shadows of the woods between our homes.
Watching from my office window, I hear nothing to betray her as she steals through the underbrush and brittle autumn leaves. With predator instincts—alert, watchful, patient—she wisely pays heed to each of her senses, as she lurks near the birdbath in consummate silence. Though I can barely make out their colors or forms, a pair of cardinals and several tree sparrows, perched in the branches a few feet above her, take turns at the feeder while regarding Belinda.
A glint of some movement grabs my attention. I turn to catch sight of a field mouse scrambling from the steps near the basement to somewhere below me. Though easily sixty feet away, Belinda’s ears instantly twist in our direction. Leaping from her resting place, she nimbly sprints the twenty yards and neatly lands on our doorstep in seconds. Two seconds too late (as the mouse has since fled), her nose points uncannily toward the garage. But first she must sort through a mare’s nest of past smells that mingle together in the port cochere—tires that have passed through, stacks of old herb pots, bags of freshly pulled grasses and weeds, tracks of our own feet, chipmunk and squirrel trails, piles and drifts of dry autumn leaves—all to which, though I live here, I’m oblivious. Yet, she discerns each with exacting precision.
She sniffs at the gap beneath the door to the garage (just large enough for a mouse to slip through) and stands frozen—a statue of pure concentration—for half a minute or longer; I’m not really sure. Then she looks back to the driveway around her, scanning it for any small trace of movement. Perhaps because she spies me sipping from my mug, or catches a waft of my tea in the breeze, she looks up to my window. Meeting my gaze, she pauses a moment—we watch from opposite sides of the window—and then Belinda saunters off, back to the woods to resume her hunt.
Living with sensitivity bids us to step out of our perspective and view the world as others do. When I was in my early thirties, restless and searching for a meaning to life—during the years my wife refers to fondly as my “monk stage”—one particular weekend challenged the very core of my beliefs on living with sensitivity.
During a three-day retreat I had joined for a few days of thoughtful self-reflection, after returning from dinner one evening, we were asked by the leader of our group to swap shoes with another person. As we arranged ourselves around the room at the end of a long day of soul-searching, I marveled at the circle of faces in the softened light of our gathering place. Some eyes I knew well and, in turn, they knew me from countless times we’d shared together—dinners spent in each other’s homes, meetings for tea in the afternoon, walks in the park and on trails in the woods sharing tales and confidences, trips to the coast, movie dates, late-night talks underneath the stars, sharing hopes and dreams, regrets and fears, and all the stuff that friendships are made of. Others I’d just begun to know or, in some faces, I’d barely met—a smile, a pause, a puzzled look—in some an untried meeting point, in others a flicker of newfound connection. Before I’d settled on anyone with whom I wanted to switch my shoes, Ian, who I’d known for years, walked up and asked me to join him. And even though I’d planned on pairing with someone less familiar, all the same I was grateful for the simple comfort of an old friend.
As we arranged ourselves around the room and sat on the rug to swap our shoes, something odd began to happen. Despite how well we knew each other from all the times we’d spent together, as I slipped off my shoes and he handed me his, I was struck by our differences. Much sturdier than me and a good foot taller, he was dressed in the same gear he wore to work—flannel shirt, blue jeans, leather belt, steel-toed shoes—a standard uniform, more or less, for an Oregon tree farmer. On the other hand, as usual when I wasn’t dressed in surgery scrubs, I wore a camp shirt, khakis, and loafers. We settled into each other’s shoes, and as I tugged at the shoelaces, my feet, to me, seemed amazingly small. Yet, despite their ill-fitted roominess, his shoes gave off a comfortable warmth, reflecting his body heat even after he had shed them.
Were my feet just chilled or were his so much warmer?
As I stood up to return to the group, his shoes transformed into leaden weights. To keep from stepping right out of them, I arched my soles and curled my toes—a memory of dress-up in Daddy’s clothes and stomping through the bedroom. Standing, sitting, or walking about as the evening wore on and the hour got later, I began to notice my body shifting in the subtlest ways in how I behaved—how I stretched on the rug; how I crossed my legs; how I wiggled my toes as I spoke and listened; how I reached out to others and they to me with quirky, curious differences. And though knowing Ian as well as I did, I questioned how well I understood him.
An age-old Cheyenne proverb teaches, “Do not judge your neighbor until you have walked two moons in his moccasins.” Until we step in another’s shoes and truly get the feel of them, we can only imagine the world as they see it. Yet with feet in lieu of paws and hooves, how can we walk in an animal’s shoes? In spite of our kinship and depth of connection, we are aliens to their world.
On walks through the neighborhood with our dog, Katie, I scratch my head and watch in wonder as she is drawn to lampposts one after another and sniffs at each with newfound fascination. While I stand by and cluelessly watch her, as much as I try to understand (and many times wish that we’d just move on), she is lost in a world I can only imagine. I envision a dog’s world with clouds of aromas—some muted pastels, some lusciously brilliant, painted on tree trunks, seeping from crevices, and wafting aimlessly in the breeze. Enthralling. Alluring. Beguiling. Seductive.
If for just one day we could smell as a dog does, in what ways would that day differ from others? And how might we be changed afterward? Could we go on with our lives as before, ignoring all that our senses miss? Or would we then dare to look at the world from a fresh perspective?
Imagine, for a moment, walking into a large gathering at a friend’s house, hotel ballroom, or perhaps a restaurant and instantly, with just a sniff or two, knowing more about the people around you. Who is nervous? Who’s afraid? Who is excited and happy to greet you? Moving beyond a dog’s perspective, how would it feel to surge through the waves and leap through the air with the ease of a dolphin? What would it be like to lope through the savannah, grasses billowing in your wake, in a coalition of cheetahs, moving toward a nearby grazing herd of impala? Or to swiftly glide through the cold autumn air as silently as a great horned owl, having spotted through the blackness of night the stripe of a skunk on the forest floor below you?
How, then, is it possible to step into the shoes of an animal? Simply put, as humans, we can’t. But we can acknowledge our human condition and our remarkable differences as species. We begin to open to a new perspective by recognizing that we perceive only a fraction of all that surrounds us. Though we never see the atoms that make up our own fingertips, we know, nonetheless, that they exist, and our lives are intrinsically based on them. With electron microscopes, we can even manage to peek at them, to see the matter that we are made of. Likewise, knowing there are sounds beyond our range of hearing, colors and details our eyes simply miss, and aromas we breathe to which we are oblivious, we can turn to animals for fresh, new perspectives by envisioning the world as if we stood in their footsteps.
In the hurried pace of our daily routines, we all too often neglect to notice what our senses reveal to us. At the end of the day as we drive down the freeway, in our haste to make it home, we ignore the ochre hues of sunset fading before us between the clouds. With windows closed to the snarl of traffic and radios tuned to the evening news, we miss a flock of geese above us honking as they pass overhead and the cool smell of the evening breeze blowing past us across the pavement. Even when we make it home—while our dogs wag merrily at our heels as if we’ve been away for weeks and our cats jump to snuggle into our laps as we collapse upon the sofa—our thoughts often drag us right out of the moment, away from the comfort of being at home, the nuzzle of an adoring pet, the ease of familiar smells and sounds. Distracted by responsibilities and focused on our hopes and dreams, we neglect what is right within our reach. And in so doing, we miss the moment and all the rich experiences it offers us.
Dating back to the Han dynasty and spanning several religions since then, an ancient Chinese parable tells of three blind men and an elephant. One day, on their way to a far-off village, the three men were following a path through the jungle. As the trail wound down through a river gorge, they felt the ground begin to tremble and heard the crushing of branches and vines coming from the gulley that the path was surely leading to.
The oldest one doubted whether they should continue, but after talking among themselves, they all agreed to carry on. When at last the trail flattened again and they’d left the slope of the bluff behind them, the men crossed the path of a local herdsman, tending to his elephants while they grazed along the riverbank.
As soon as he saw the men approaching, the herdsman quickly called out to them, “Good day to you, travelers. There’s no need to be concerned. My elephants know this canyon well and are very used to all sorts of strangers.”
Having never encountered an elephant, the three were naturally curious from countless tales they’d heard of them.
While the men fearlessly approached the stranger, the eldest one led and spoke up to explain, “All three of us are blind men, sir, and have never seen an elephant. And standing now so close to them, my friends and I are quite intrigued about the fascinating sounds that these creatures seem to make.”
He paused for a moment to confer with his companions. The other two encouraged him to carry on, and so he asked, “Before we pass, since you work with these elephants—and, clearly, know them very well—may we ask you to describe them and tell us what they’re doing now?”
Walking up to them, the herdsman replied, “I believe I can do even better than that.” Holding out his arms to the older man, the herdsman said, “Come take my hands, if you are willing, and I will lead you up to one, so you can meet her for yourself.”
Once the other two heard this offer, they stepped up quickly to the elder’s side, and the three blind men walked in single file as the stranger led them to an elephant cow. Stopping a few yards from her side, the herdsman asked them to wait together until he brought her closer to them. As all three eagerly stood in silence, each imagined what he would soon find with an elephant standing by his very own side.
They could smell her breath and the scent of her skin as the cow stepped up and stood before them. Then, taking the first man by the hand, the herdsman led him to her closest leg. With a smile on his face and a grunt of fascination, the eldest lightly touched the elephant’s leg and then more boldly groped to explore in widening swaths from her toes to her shoulder.
Returning to the other two, the herdsman took the next man’s hand and quietly led him to the elephant’s rear. There the second man caressed and examined every inch of her swishing tail, while the herdsman left to retrieve their friend.
Guiding the last one to the elephant’s head, the herdsman led his hand toward the old cow’s face. Grasping her ear with a look of enchantment, the third man softly cooed as he stroked her skin, and the ear, in response, flapped back and forth against him.
When each man felt satisfied with all that he had learned, the herdsman steered them back one by one to the trail, where they thanked him profusely and continued on their journey.
Though all three were quiet as they walked along the river, each man was eager to share all he’d discovered. At last, the eldest spoke up, saying, “I had always imagined elephants to be large and sturdy, which she certainly was. But I was awed by how much she was like a tree—tall, strong, and steady … yet remarkably soft.”
“How very odd that you would say this,” the third man said after hearing his friend. “You could not have been feeling the elephant! Oh, I agree, she was large and soft, but she was plainly more like a leathery fan. The breeze she made as she waved to and fro tickled my face while I held her in my hands.”
After listening to all that the others said, the second man at last declared, “I’m not sure what either of you touched with your hands, but it quite clearly wasn’t the elephant. She was not like a fan or a tall, sturdy tree. She had leathery skin that was wrinkled and bald, and a coarse tuft of hair at the top of her head. And with the way that she wriggled, she reminded me of a snake!”
They continued for miles down the river gorge trail, with each man describing the creature he had met. But with their portrayals each being so different, they found no way to reconcile them in the end.
And later that evening as they lay down to rest, the image of what they had held in their own hands was no more of an elephant than what they envisioned before they left that morning.
When we limit our experience to what we perceive, we let our senses define our existence. Unless we are willing to step out of our shoes to consider all that we may miss beyond what we are sensing, our lives become narrowed and circumscribed. Sensitivity is a process of always reaching out, beyond what we think we know, to embrace the viewpoint of another. As we strive to truly understand what others may perceive, and recognize the inherent limits of our own perspective, we allow ourselves to open up to new ways of being and a world of new experiences. And the more that we allow ourselves to truly embrace another’s outlook, for all we can learn about ourselves and them, the more we are transformed by our sensitivity and are able to live with more empathy for one another.
Man is but one among millions of species of animals. What we hold in common is this planet that we share. But as we go about our lives, each of us does so from a different perspective. Even individuals among a given species—elephants, dolphins, dogs, cats, or humans—although they share similar features and forms, touch and see and hear the world through their own unique filters. The animals around us in our daily lives, from the hawk eyeing us from his perch high in the branches, to the smallest ant crossing our path as we step outside our door, can challenge us to stretch our perspective and inspire us to consider a world more lavish than we could ever grasp on our own—if we will only allow them to.