Sunday, April 13, 2014

The Gift of Vision

Waking up slowly to the clear sky, the smell of coffee brewed a few hours ago as the fisherman left to find the catch of the day, I step out onto the deck, hooded and fleeced, looking at the ripples in the lake, wondering how much of the rippling is due to my vision. The fear still lingers, although I am beginning to see clearer but not much more so than before the surgery. Not a distorted but quite blurry none the less. I swat at the floaters, unable to distinguish between them and an insect flying by. I plant some herbs, clean my studio after a day of sculpting yesterday. 
It was a challenging day of sculpting. What began as an introspective sculpture about the process I am going through from the eye surgery when I began this second in the series, this time brought up a lot of rage and drained me quite a bit. The first one I created before the surgery came out very differently than I initially envisioned. I became more about hopefulness than fear. I think it will be entitled Hope Is A Thing With Feathers, an ode to Emily Dickenson. The next sculpture I will create will be called Veil of Indifference. This current one I am making though,  deals with another type of vision, the vision of not feeling "seen" and questioning the way I see others and my relationships. I struggled with it, liking it, hating it, picking at it, trying to make it perfect and then surrendering to it not being meant to be perfect. It is meant to be distorted, painful, misshapen, not what I thought it would be. I allow the "non-beauty" of what wants to come out in it emerge and let it become what it needs to become. I have left it moist and covered, and will see how she speaks to me when I return to it next. It has spent me.

I set out in my kayak, onto the quiet lake that seems to be all my own. There is the sound of the occasional mower or the sound of chatting being carrying across the lake, but the lake is all mine. After a brief while of paddling, I paddle with my eyes closed, feeling the breeze, hearing the splashing, just wondering what it feels like to "see" the lake, feel the lake, with eyes closed. I wonder if I can "feel" myself paddling straight on course without the vision that my eyes give me, but instead the vision of intuition. We take so much for granted with our vision. 

After coming back to the dock, I  climb onto the hammock anxious to read the yet to be released copy of "Parentheses". It has been so long since I read a "book" and not my Kindle with the enlarged print, and high contrast of black on white. I have a magnifying strip that I try to read through, but although it enlarges the print, it distorts it, something that is all too familiar and quite unwelcome. As I read, two deer come meandering by, I pause, I watch. I savor their gentle peacefulness.

 I move onto the the dock to soak up the sun as I continue to read. More floaters appear in my eye and I feel the strain as I look out over the water, but I cannot stop reading. I am pulled into this world of life, death, birth, a ride that I cannot get off of, and don't want to leave. I am compelled beyond what I have ever experienced. There is so much that feels familiar, so much that is revealed, so many emotions that lie beneath Fred's surface, that created a buoyancy for my own emotions. I must stop, digest, try to see more clearly, both through my thoughts and my eyes. There is an increased cloudiness when I look up over the water. I told myself I would read in short spurts, as my eyes adjusted and healed, but I cannot seem to stop. 

So I stop to write, hoping that this process brings me more clarity. Writing in the sunlight makes it difficult for me to see the contrast on the keyboard, so I touch type, I will correct it later. Instead I am allowing myself to "feel" the words and emotions that this time of reading the first 80 pages evoked in me. I was told by another woman who has already had the gift of reading the book, that her life has been forever changed. I can see why. I welcome the journey into the remaining 300 pages as I learn more about Fred and in doing so learn more about myself. Quite a timely gift has been bestowed upon be. I will savor it. My eyes are telling me it is time to rest and digest, and I will listen to them and listen inward. A new vision.

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