I am terribly near sighted, and from the age of 12 I have lived with the awareness that I may one day lose my sight entirely.
Several years ago, I went for a consult to see if I qualified for laser eye surgery. I dreamed of being able to wake up and see perfectly. But, as luck would have it, my corneas were too thin. Unbelievable! It is probably the only time that the word “thin” will ever be used to describe any part of my body, and it’s the wrong part!
I understand that the technology has progressed a fair bit since that initial consult and that I might now be able to get laser surgery in spite of thin corneas. However, as much as I like the idea of seeing perfectly all the time, part of me appreciates being forced to not take my sight for granted.
Living with the knowledge that I may one day lose my sight literally changes the way I navigate the world. When I see something that moves me, it’s as if time stands still and I need to catalogue it in the special file I have in my brain which holds all of my “OMG! Isn’t this world amazing???!!!” memories.
The sheer beauty of my daughter’s face as she looks at me from under a sun lit sheet with pure joy and love in her eyes is one of my all time favourites. Technicolour lightning storms on the beach in Jamaica, or finally getting a chance to see the seductive green dance of the Northern lights in Saskatchewan are a few others. And I could go on.
As I write this today, I realize that the gift of my condition is the understanding of impermanence. Because I know that there may be a time that I will not be able to see, I tune in that much more. I notice that much more. I am that much more connected and alive.
If we accept the truth of this world, that nothing lasts, you can’t help but live in grace and to appreciate the moment, the experience right now.
So today, as I lay in bed without the benefit of my glasses, I look out my window and delight in the movements of the fuzzy forms I know are trees dancing in the wind. And I am thankful.