I spent last weekend with Freida, the newest member of our family. She's four months old and gorgeous.

The memory that stands out is a plump, smiling, dark-haired baby who was looking at me. Really staring, for minutes at a time.

On our previous visit her eyes moved at random, rarely settling on me or anything else.

Now she's able to really attend. My heart melted, to be the focus of attention for someone so fresh and new.

Truly looking

Thinking about our visit later, I realized how rare it has become for us adults to truly look at each other.

Sure, we may co-exist in a certain space, whether the office or the kitchen.

We may talk, do tasks, share plans, design programs, but there's a distinct lack of attention to the human being behind those tasks and plans and programs.

We see each other only well enough to avoid stepping on each other's feet.

That look

Meanwhile, we're all hungry to see that light in the eyes that says, "I get you. I really see you."

Maybe that's why there's so much talk these days about face-time.

Maybe it's what drives us to think, "Don't treat me as a function who accomplishes certain vital tasks. See me as a human being, with aspirations and needs, with a headache or a joy, with anticipation or dread."

Feedback says I'm seen

Which may also explain why the idea of feedback has become so important in recent decades.

Feedback can be an informal remark over the kitchen table. ("You look great, but straighten your tie before you go out.") Or it may be a full-fledged, corporate feedback process.

Either way, it provides relevant information: where I'm doing well and where I could improve.

Crucially, it also tells me that someone sees me, really attends to how I'm doing.

We're all wired to want that kind of recognition.

Which takes me back to Freida

In her pure, infant way, she really saw me.

Now I'm looking forward to staring back into those big brown eyes, and saying "I see you too, Freida."