Can I see what you see?
How a little shift in perspective opens vast horizons
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The watchman on the ship
At seventeen I was a small boy in a world of big men—hard men who had weathered storms, turmoil, and turbulence with a stoicism I couldn’t yet understand. Life at sea confronted us with reality every day. But I didn’t always see it. The men around me could see things that remained hidden to me: clouded by my ignorance, inexperience and inadequacy.
Imagine this. You have just spent more than a week on the water, gazing at a dull blue-grey horizon that blends sky and sea into a shapeless expanse. Searching and waiting for landfall, you see endless sea.
“It’s a big island,” says the watchman beside you, interrupting your reverie and nodding toward the horizon.
You raise your binoculars for a better view. Nothing.
“He must have good eyes,” you think, feeling just a little inadequate. Embarrassed, you finally ask: “Where?”
The withering look he gives you is sufficient for you to know you have asked A Dumb Question.
You look again. Still nothing.
Where are the postcard perfect beaches and swaying palm trees that populated my imagination?
All you can see on the horizon is an indistinct grey wash.
Then, as if by some trick of the light, the faint pencil outline of a looming island emerges, its mountains now close, framed against the sky.
Too often what we expect to see blinds us to what is truly there. The watchman, though, looks with insight born of experience: understanding not just what to look for, but how to look.
The metacrisis: A convergence of challenges
Does it feel as if we have ringside seats to disaster, watching the world unravel in slow motion? It seems that crises cascade toward us from every direction, across technology, economy, environment, society, geopolitics—all converging into what some call a metacrisis.
Wars in the Middle East, Russia and Ukraine. AI companions urging their creators to end their lives so they can ‘be together.’ A pogrom in Amsterdam, spiralling into a state of emergency. Hurricanes Helen and Milton battering the U.S., each leaving behind shattered lives and $50 billion in devastation. Floods and mudslides in Spain. Political crises in Germany, South Korea and Syria. Britain and the EU facing economic turmoil.
Headlines for some. Hardship for many.
Every wave of destruction tears through the hearts of mothers and fathers, sons and daughters—and perhaps yours, too, as you read this. It’s ok if you feel a little despair.
Yet many of us remain on the sidelines, watching dispassionately as if witnessing a car crash in slow motion. While it upends the lives of others, we cling to the hope that we will somehow emerge unscathed. Heads down, we try to keep chaos at bay, convincing ourselves that someone, somewhere, will act.
From the safety of sheltered existence, we see the riots, the revolts and the upheavals tearing through the economy, society, and the environment. Geopolitical conflict feels distant, and too big and too complicated for us to get involved. There is a convenient self-assurance, a morally comfortable lie, that someone else will take responsibility, someone else will fix it: that they will do something.
But what if they don’t? What if there is no they?
What if, in the end, there is only you?
Lessons from history
Chaos and conflict do not guarantee ruin. History shows they may presage renewal—if we step out from the shadows of despair.
The 14th century—a time of famine, plague, and political collapse—seemed to herald the end of civilisation. Leaders manipulated laws to maintain control, education prioritised material gain, and a devastating pandemic spread despair. Serfs struggled to survive; rulers fought to maintain power. Despair hung heavy over Europe.
Amid this turmoil, Petrarch, the “father of humanism,” offered a glimpse of rebirth. While may were consumed by despair he sought something more—a path to rediscover meaning and human potential.
On April 26, 1336, he set out to climb Mont Ventoux in southern France, driven by curiosity and wonder. Climbing a mountain for the sheer delight of the journey was unheard of in Petrarch’s time. His companions on the trail were his brother at his side and Augustine’s Confessions in his rucksack. As they ascended the rugged, windswept path, Augustine’s words invited them to turn inward:
Men go to admire the high mountains, the vast floods of the sea, the broad flow of the rivers, the encircling ocean and the motions of the stars: and yet they leave themselves unnoticed; they do not marvel at themselves.
Augustine echoes Socrates’ assertion that the unexamined life is not worth living. Petrarch’s ascent of Mont Ventoux serves as the model of an inner journey toward greater self-awareness. Climbing a mountain simply to enjoy the view symbolises the pursuit of what is true and beautiful and good for their own sake.
Standing on the barren peak, Petrarch looked to the horizon, gazing beyond the landscape to a new moral horizon. He grasped that the challenges confronting the world—political corruption, societal decay, and the loss of virtue—were ultimately challenges of human character.
His ascent became a metaphor for a deeper journey: the pursuit of self-awareness, the rediscovery of values, and the recognition that renewal begins within. Petrarch’s advocacy for a classical education grounded in virtue would go on to shape the Renaissance, a rebirth of art, literature, and music that suffused the world with beauty and goodness.
Today, as we face our own convergence of crises, Petrarch’s journey reminds us that the possibility of a Renaissance starts with paying attention—attending to ourselves, reclaiming neglected values, and rediscovering the potential of the human spirit.
Your response shapes the world
Periods of profound crisis often set the stage for change and transformation. At the very moment all seems lost we may stand on the brink of something remarkable. Yet, renewal is never inevitable. It demands preparation, a willingness to turn fully toward the present, and attention to the depths within and around us. The question is not whether the invitation will arrive—it always does—but how each of us will respond.
The path to renewal begins with a choice, when the “they” becomes “we.” It begins when we learn to pay attention—not just to the warning alarms of crisis—be they environmental, social, or political—but to the beauty of the present and the possibilities of the future.
Martin Heidegger, the German philosopher, speaks of an Augenblick, a ‘moment of vision’ in which the future calls to the present. This quiet call invites you to choose wisely, aligning not just with your best self, but your highest self. While you attend fully to the present, listen for a quiet call that reaches you from beyond. It is a gentle pull, not a command—a call to reorient toward what is beautiful, true, and good—that comes from beyond: God, the divine, the transcendent. It invites us not by coercion but by attraction, drawing us toward connection, meaning, and values that elevate humanity. It urges us to see others as persons, not obstacles; to rise above tribalism and competition; to build bridges where others erect walls.
This call is not a warning, but a revelation—a quiet request to choose not from fear, but from love for what could be. Your response sets ripples in motion—ripples that may alter the trajectory of humanity.
Consider Chiune Sugihara. In 1934, he resigned from Japan’s Foreign Ministry in protest over the cruelty his countrymen inflicted on the Chinese. Later, as a diplomat in Lithuania, he risked death at the hands of the Nazis and disgrace from his own government to issue more than 2,000 visas to Jewish refugees. “I didn’t do anything special,” he said. “I followed my conscience and listened to it.”
Sugihara’s actions remind us that history is shaped by those who heed the call. Today, as crises converge, that call is waiting—not as a command, but as an invitation to rediscover the human potential within you, and do your quiet work for humanity.
But answering the call requires more than resolve—it requires vision. In a world stretched thin by distraction and disconnection, seeing clearly demands that we turn inward, exploring the depths within ourselves where true insight begins, and from which courage flows.
Overcoming despair and finding depth in a thin world
The call to renewal reaches deep within us—to that interior vertical self. You hold inestimable depth: of emotion, care, and being. Sadly, contemporary culture has stretched us like a rubber band, stretched thin, and almost to breaking point. Pulled in every direction by a materialistic, consumer-driven culture, we have been flattened across a virtual landscape of shallow connections and sad devices. Depth has been traded for distraction, substance for stimulation.
To build on Socrates: the horizontal life is not worth living.
The problem with a thin, horizontal, existence is that it narrows our gaze to a single, familiar spot on the horizon. We look only for what we expect to see, blind to the grandeur of the bigger picture. Like the watchman at sea, truly seeing begins not with what you look for, but with knowing how to look and understanding what you seek.
Today’s compounding crises cloud our vision. Conflict, division, and despair distort how we see one another—not as sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, but as threats, obstacles, or strangers. If chaos prevails, it will not be because technology, politics, or the environment failed us. It will be because we failed in care, compassion, and collaboration.
The key to grasping reality is to attend differently: to see not simply what you wish to see, but what is truly there. To recognise not just the crisis, but the beauty waiting to emerge.
Begin with a simple, yet transformative, practice: look for beauty. Not in the extraordinary, but in the ordinary moments of life. Train your eye to see what others overlook. In this act of attention, you reclaim depth—and begin the quiet work of renewal.
An invitation to an inner Renaissance
Can you see what the watchman sees: not just a faint outline, but something extraordinary emerging from the haze?
Can you see what Petrarch saw: not just a landscape but a new way of living, oriented toward what is beautiful, true, and good?
Despite the chaos, this is not a time for despair but for discovery. A new Renaissance begins when you explore the depths of your own being, and look outward beyond the illusions, to what is real—and help others find their way to solid ground.
You don’t have to climb a mountain or navigate the seas to get started. Begin by looking differently at the horizon of your own life. Develop a habit of seeking beauty in the ordinary moments of the day. Be sensitive to someone who needs your care and attention.
In the end, it’s you who changes, not the horizon.