Grandpa Gill used to call me Slowpoke, Turtle, and other denotators as to my stopping to notice everything. We would be walking in the park and as he was talking to me, I would stop and drop to watch a flower, a blade of grass flex as an ant brushed upon it, a droplet of dew reflected light, or a mysterious item would catch my eye, like a bright blob of chewing gum on the sidewalk (and I would pull it up and put it in my mouth and chew it). I guess I was a Noticer, but not a very clean one.
I noticed everything, felt everything, and sometimes it overwhelmed my senses so much, that I would shrink into myself to shut it all out. In time, a gentle touch would feel like a searing iron on my skin, but being hit would not bother me too much. Then I was diagnosed as Autistic, but the truth is more complicated than that diagnosis. A Sensitive was reacting to his abusive circumstances and keeping the secrets of the abusers out of some con-job sense of loyalty. Groomers are experts at such things.
Robert Frost and I share a birthday, and we share something else, and that's a love of the written word, including poetry. He was a healthy Sensitive. Here is one of his poems I resonate with, titled, Every Grain of Sand:
Every Grain of Sand
In the time of my confession
In the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet
Flood every newborn seed
There's a dying voice within me
Reaching out somewhere
Toiling in the danger
And in the morals of despair
Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake
Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break
In the fury of the moment, I can see the Master's Hand
In every leaf that trembles and in every grain of sand
Oh, the flowers of indulgence
And the weeds of yesteryear
Like criminals, they have choked the breath
Of conscience and good cheer
The sun beat down upon the steps of time
To light the way
To ease the pain of idleness
And the memory of decay
I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame
And every time I pass that way, I always hear my name
Then onward in my journey, I come to understand
That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand
I have gone from rags to riches
In the sorrow of the night
In the violence of a summer's dream
In the chill of a wintry light
In the bitter dance of loneliness
Fading into space
In the broken mirror of innocence
On each forgotten face
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me
I am hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand
Good stuff, eh? Reminds me of a line from one of Michael Monroe's songs. A Safe Place to Land, Poems and Poets, Music, Sincere Hugs, and following The Holy Spirit. https://youtu.be/cvuptbkHjVI