STARING INTO DEEP SPACE is not necessarily a sign of cognitive impoverishment. Many undertake this rigorous task, and some, such as astronomers, meteorologists and horoscopists, are even paid for it. At the advanced age of 31, Charles Darwin retired to his rural estate in Down, England. And from his desk there came a series of monumental texts that revolutionized human thinking.

It was Darwin’s custom to take lengthy walks through his gardens each morning. His resident gardener, when asked about Darwin’s idiosyncratic activities, replied: “Poor man; he walks every morning, stops for a while to stare into space, then walks on without saying a word. Poor Mr. Darwin.”

Society, in general, deplores purposeless and idle activity, regarding it, at best, as an impoliteness and at worst as an antisocial eccentricity. Staring, in nature, is rare and seems to be confined to such lowly creatures as the night-owl and tropical lizards.

Imagine now a man standing, hours on end, staring at the flowing waters of a babbling brook. Some might even be tempted to summon the police, considering the man a potential danger to himself or to the peace of the community. But place a fishing pole in his hands, forget even the need for a line and bait, and the potential threat is magically transformed into a person with a mission, an objective, an assignment and a socially sanctioned function. He now possesses that blessed contrivance of mankind — an agenda.

Staring, it seems, must have a tangible purpose to be generally acceptable. But many who have overcome both life’s unpoetic agendas and society’s disapproving glare have discovered a deeper reward in nonspecific staring. William Henry Davies (1871-1940), an American poet, once reflected on the merit of staring:

What is life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare?

How then does one go about staring into space without incurring the anxieties of neighbors or the surveillance of authorities? Space-staring, first, must be a lonely enterprise not to be undertaken casually at some busy urban intersection or in concert with a gathering of close friends. Nor, indeed, should it be scheduled in advance. It should arise spontaneously, in isolation, furtively perhaps, without a stated goal, and with no conscious intent other than a yearning to see beyond the clouds. Not really to see; rather, to be beyond the upper clouds, to experience — beyond this noisy global surface – the gentle possibilities of an infinite silence just shy of oblivion.

Specifically, how does one go about space-staring without drowning in self-doubt, embarrassment or a rapid passage to the nearest emergency room?

One begins by assertively setting aside the daily tasks and immediate anxieties, then finding a solitary place and perhaps a comfortable chair. Then one starts to stare into the distance, preferably above the horizon, carefully avoiding such transient distractions as passing birds, aircraft and caped humans. The purpose of staring, after all, is not the finding and identification of flying objects or rare birds; nor is it a prelude to the writing of an immortal poem or scientific text. The purpose is solely to unclutter a brain weighted down with challenging problems and guilty remembrances and to seek instead a temporary repose.

Staring or peering into space, after a while, takes on a gentle life of its own. It tends to assign truer values to the many confrontations that make up our days. And through insight, it makes the preternatural seem much more natural.

Peering beyond the clouds need not be confined to sultry summer afternoons. Staring beyond the nightly stars constitutes a special subset of space-staring and requires a unique sensitivity to the hazards of this variety of staring. Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) provided us with a meager glimpse into the dangers – and yields – of nightly peering when he wrote his memorable poem on the raven, Poe’s prophet and “thing of evil.”:

Deep into that darkness peering,

Long stood I there, wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams

No mortal ever dared to dream before.

Life is too complex for us mortals to understand all that surrounds us and impinges upon our lives; at best we can witness life and leave the explanations to higher authorities. Staring into space is but one of many ways that lets us remove the tyranny of our senses in determining life’s priorities while letting us see things – albeit unfocused – in a more novel way. It may encourage us, too, to appreciate this stressed planet of ours. After all, where else can one purchase pistachio ice-cream?

Stanley M. Aronson, M.D., a weekly contributor, is dean of medicine emeritus, Brown University ( smamd@cox.net).