“The master’s eye will do more work than both his hands.” Poor Richard’s Almanac, Benjamin Franklin.

Ever watch an artist at work?

Master painters spend more time stepping back and looking at their work than brushing paint on their canvas.

Professional film-makers study a shot or a landscape for a critical scene from every angle, at different times of day, in all kinds of weather before telling the camera-man to film.

Top-notch clothing designers take more time to see how the sketch book wears the dress before they even begin draping the fabric on a real-life model.

The eyes have it.

As Mr. Franklin said, the master’s eye is critical, penetrating, objective. It’s the master’s work, but if it’s imperfect or flawed, anywhere, it’s not good enough.

The photographer peers through his lenses for hours, and then studies hundreds of photographs before selecting the one that tells the story, the one that is worth one hundred thousands words.

The cabinetmaker sorts through the unit of hardwood, searching for the perfect board. He studies the grain and the way the light plays on the natural variations before making his first cut. He bends down, tips his head and squints to see if it’s straight.

The eyes have it.

I’m not an artist.

Well, not in the traditional sense. But I do have a master’s eye. And I’m sure you do too, if you think about it.

Does this sound familiar? I walk into my living room before the doorbell rings and in one breath, I see that a picture is crooked. There is a cookie crumb on the rug. Dog hair on the black tablecloth. One squished pillow. No one else would see this. I’m the master of my home. My eyes have it.

Your masterful eyes might open wide in a garden or in your child’s bedroom or in a cast-iron skillet. You see what others don’t see, and you do something about it.

Where is your master’s eye at work? Where do you see flaws just waiting for your touch?

Helen Keller said, “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt within the heart.”

Yet Helen Keller would probably argue that if we couldn’t touch things, we’d miss a piece of nature, beauty, life.

Think about what you touched today.

• The snooze button on your alarm clock.
• Rumpled sheets on your bed
• A baby’s soft hair.
• A soft shag rug under your feet.
• Cold tiles in the shower.
• Scratchy leg or facial hair. (You need to shave. Or not.)
• The hot cup of coffee.
• A cracked egg.
• Your child’s warm hand.

Until now, you probably didn’t think about your sense of touch.

Did you “reach out and touch” something purposefully today? Did you touch something just to connect with it emotionally, spiritually? Grabbing that nasty kitchen sponge to wipe the cookie crumbs off the table does not count. Neither does touching the screen on your phone no matter how good that feels.

Purposeful touching happens when I’m strolling through a high-end retail shop.

I touch everything. Velvet jackets, tweed slacks, silk tunics. And leather. I have to touch leather hobo purses, Italian leather jackets, and the buttery arms of a cozy library chair. When I pass the furniture displays, I caress a mahogany bookcase or an Appalachian maple dining table.

Admiring beautiful material without touching it is like gazing at a rose and not inhaling its fragrance or staring at warm chocolate chip cookies and not tasting their gooey-ness.

Without the touch, the scent, the taste, there’s a hunger, a void.

Yet when you indulge that hunger and touch the beautiful, you smile.

Your soul smiles.

Did your soul smile today when you touched something? What was it and how did it feel?