One morning, I woke up with the semester already pressing on me. There were papers to grade and a conference presentation to prepare. Rejected manuscripts needed revisions and new journals to consider. Committee work required more reading and evaluation. New paper ideas, which usually excited me, had joined everything else waiting for my attention.
I was still in my bedroom, and I already felt behind.
Then I looked at a painting on the wall.
A friend had given it to me when I lived in Pennsylvania more than a decade ago. A pale lighthouse stands on a rocky shoreline beside a small building with a red roof. Turquoise waves break against the rocks, sending white spray into the air. The sun sits low on the horizon, spreading yellow and peach across the sky. Light glows through the curve of a wave. Birds glide above the water.
I had always loved its colors. That morning, my attention settled on the lighthouse.
I began imagining everything a lighthouse encounters. Waves rise and fall around it. Weather changes. The sun heats its surface, and night brings cooler air. Through all of this, it remains there.
For a moment, I thought about its strength. Then even the question of strength seemed unnecessary. The lighthouse was simply standing. I could look at it without asking whether I was strong enough to face the day.
I kept looking.
The grading came into my thoughts again. Then a rejected paper. Then something I needed to finish for a committee. Each concern arrived with its own weight. In the painting, I could see waves gathering, curling, and breaking. Gradually, I began recognizing a similar movement in my mind.
Here was the thought about grading. Here came the worry about publication. Another idea followed before the previous one had settled.
As I returned my attention to the lighthouse, I felt more grounded. A few minutes became perhaps half an hour. I watched the painting and noticed my thoughts coming and going.
The work remained. I could begin to see the concerns individually and give myself a little room before responding.
Seeing the waves
Psychologists use the term decentering to describe a way of observing our internal experiences. In a review, Amit Bernstein and colleagues describe processes that include noticing thoughts, experiencing some separation from them, and becoming less reactive to their content. This offers one way to understand what I experienced that morning. I was becoming aware of the movement of my thoughts and how quickly each one demanded my attention.
The painting made this process concrete. “Observe your thoughts” can feel abstract when everything is happening at once. The sea gave my thoughts a visible form. The lighthouse gave my attention somewhere to return.
Later that day, when another concern arrived, I could picture the lighthouse easily. I remembered the water moving around it. That image helped me reconnect with the steadiness I had felt in the bedroom.
I was surprised by how readily it came back to me. A painting I had looked past for years had become available in my mind.
Something to return to
Personally significant images can affect how we experience difficult moments. In a laboratory study, Naomi Eisenberger and colleagues found that women viewing photographs of their romantic partners reported less experimentally induced pain than when viewing control images. The study concerned physical pain and supportive relationships, and it offers evidence that an image can evoke something psychologically consequential through what it represents to us.
My experience with the lighthouse painting strengthened an idea I've held for some time, which I am developing as Enduring Symbolic Theory (EST). I use that name for the possibility that personally significant objects can become recurring points of return, helping us reconnect with a sense of steadiness through seeing and remembering them. (This is a developing proposal drawn from reflection; research would be needed to examine when and how this process works.)
What interests me is the endurance of the symbol. The painting remains on my wall but its image is also available when I am somewhere else. I can return to it across different moments of the day.
A photograph of someone we love might serve a similar purpose. So might a gift associated with someone whose presence reassures us. The significance comes from our relationship with the object and what becomes available when we attend to it.
In an earlier reflection about my aging parents, I wrote about appreciating the physical abilities that make an ordinary morning possible. Making coffee, holding a cup, and sitting quietly can become occasions for gratitude. On other days, contemplating the possibility of simply being has helped me settle.
Different situations may call for different ways of returning to ourselves. That morning, the lighthouse gave form to the overwhelm I was experiencing and offered somewhere to rest my attention.
You might begin with something already in your surroundings. Take a moment to look at it. Notice what it brings to mind and how you feel in its presence. Its significance may become apparent slowly.
If the lighthouse speaks to you, try picturing the weather around it. Small waves could represent everyday tasks asking for your attention. Heat from the sun might resemble pressure building through a demanding day. Strong wind could represent an unexpected disruption, and a storm might resemble several worries arriving together. Let each image reflect how the experience feels to you.
Include the pleasant weather, too. A cool breeze might resemble the ease you feel after a good meal, an afternoon with friends, or a comforting thought. Give these moments your attention. Notice how they feel in your body and allow yourself to enjoy them. They, too, can help you feel grounded.
Throughout the day, gently ask yourself, “What is the weather around my lighthouse right now?” Notice what arrives, how it changes, and what follows. Both the storm and the breeze belong in this practice. You can observe each one without needing to change it immediately.
My painting had been there through many busy mornings. Familiarity had made it easy to overlook, and I imagine I will overlook it again. Yet now, when a wave of worry arrives or a moment of ease invites me to pause, I sometimes remember the lighthouse. I picture the evening light and the water moving around the rocks. I give myself a moment to stand there, too.