Intelligences are atoms of perception — they know and they see and they are pure, in short they are God. How then are Souls to be made? How then are these sparks which are God to have identity given them — so as ever to possess a bliss peculiar to each one’s individual existence. How, but in the medium of a world like this? – John Keats

I mentioned in a recent post that I feel the positive attributes of high sensitivity aren’t talked about enough; so, I thought I would take the time to discuss some of them here. Before I begin, it is worth noting that I view sensitivity as an amplifier. In itself, it is neither positive nor negative. If the inner experiences being amplified are positive, sensitivity can feel like an extraordinary gift. If the inner experiences being amplified are negative, it can feel like a curse. And while it’s vital to have strategies for coping with the challenging aspects of sensitivity, it is just as important—if not more important—to remember what makes it such a remarkable gift.

Here are some reasons I view high sensitivity as a blessing in my life:

It makes the everyday feel extraordinary.

Each morning at sunrise, I feed the birds and give them fresh water. I love walking outside at first light, especially this time of year, and looking up at the bare trees climbing towards the sky. I love seeing all the little sparrows huddled up on the ground beneath my bird feeders (this morning in fresh snow!) foraging for their breakfast and listening to the wrens sing their first songs of the day. Every morning, these sights and sounds fill me with joy, gratitude, and a sense of wonder—and they never get old.

I never grow so accustomed to that scene, or so jaded, that a sparrow becomes “just another bird” or an oak tree at sunrise is “just another tree” on “just another morning” and is therefore unimportant or unworthy of my attention. Each morning, I feel as if I am experiencing these things for the first time, as if I am bearing witness to something miraculous. The older I get, the more I realize how rare that seems to be and how very fortunate I am to be able to wake up every day and see the world with fresh eyes.

I don’t just like, I love.

When I discover a new interest—whether it’s a new hobby or a new favorite author or artist—I have a habit of giving myself over to it completely. Birding is an example. Collage is another. As is my love of all things Agatha Christie and of classic mysteries, generally.

I’m not the kind of person who becomes infatuated with something until the newness wears off, either. When something really sparks my interest, I don’t just like it in a casual way. I dedicate myself to it. I pursue it. I set about learning everything there is to learn about it. I love it in such a way that it becomes an extension of me.

Small things are enough.

As I write this, I am sitting in my living room looking out the window. It is a cold, sunny day, and the rooftops are still lightly covered with snow. I think, “What a beautiful day to be alive.” The sunshine, the crisp fresh air, and knowing that I will soon be spending the remainder of this snow day curled up in front of the fire with a book are enough to make today worthwhile. These experiences, however simple, don’t need to be altered or amplified.

On days when I feel stressed or overwhelmed, going for a walk and feeling the sunshine on my face, or watching birds, or sipping a hot cup of tea revives my spirit. Indeed, these things, however small, may be, to a highly sensitive person, profound in impact. They aren’t just pleasant or soothing; they’re reminders of the inherent worthwhileness of being alive.