Dear Friends,
Monday I saw my eye doctor for my annual eye exam. His practice is located near Northwest, so I made the appointment on a day I knew I would be working a little late at the office.
The first part of the examination involved what I can’t help but think of as a contest to see just how well I can read the tiniest type on the eye chart. Over the years, that barely-there, very last line of letters on the poster has gradually become fuzzier and fuzzier. And, yesterday, I had to admit that “C”, “O” and Q” looked an awful lot alike.
The nurse next put drops in my eyes, led me to a softly-lit corner of the office and asked me to wait for the doctor. As my pupils slowly began to dilate, I found the words in the article I was reading ran together like liquid, and I eventually gave up trying to make sense of them.
Instead, I sat quietly in my chair. I became aware that my blurry vision took away nearly all the visual distractions I might have otherwise engaged in (like that outdated magazine in the waiting room), and that it also made me conscious of my surroundings and myself in an altogether different way.
I listened to the nurses talk to each other about their day. I heard the news report on the TV in the next room. I noticed phones ringing, buzzers bleeping, doors opening and closing, and people laughing. And, all the while this was happening, I was aware that the shapes of things around me were becoming softly- edged and had taken on an ethereal glow.
I suddenly found myself feeling quite relaxed and at peace within. My blurry vision reminded me that I don’t need all my senses to be engaged with my life and myself. I simply need attention. Each day has a texture to it that can be best appreciated when I am still and even a bit disabled.
The poet Mary Oliver wrote:
Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
So, here it is – from me to you.
Warmly,
Terry