Some would consider it a flaw in my person that I want so strongly to be noticed, but I embrace it. I want to be recognized as part of something or someone, as connected to them in some deep and mysterious fashion. When I walk among the shoulder-high plants in the prairie section of Eloise Butler Wildflower Garden, I want those plants to be as aware of me as I am of them. I want to be noticed by them, acknowledged, confirmed.
I want my presence to be felt by people around me just as clearly and strongly as I feel them. I want the plants in my garden to direct their plant-awareness fully to me as I walk among them every morning and acknowledge them. Awareness cannot be a one directional street for me. I want there to be a constant exchange of noticing.
When I walk on the path down to the lake at my cabin, I want the ground to yield ever so slightly to my feet. I want the dirt and grass to feel my weight and my presence. They need not remember my passing, but I want them to notice and be intently aware when I am present.
For me it is about being reciprocal, of jointly feeling the connection we naturally share. I typically not only notice the presence of someone else, but I allow myself to feel their presence and acknowledge it somehow. There is nothing about the past or future involved, only the moment during which we notice that we are in a time of existing together. We are connected. I want to habitually be someone who notices that and is noticed.