The only thing worse than being blind is having sight and no vision. (Helen Keller)
My friend wears her mask over her nose, mouth—and eyes. I don’t comment. She’s blind. It doesn’t matter. I lead her to the hospital’s elevator and through registration. We wait. I suddenly realize
I left my phone in the car. I feel lost without it.
Sun shines through pale beige shades half-drawn along ample windows. The walls wear the same color and light. I try to embrace the moment. The gift of sight. The reason why I give to my friend.
But I left my phone in the car. I feel lost without it.
A medical assistant calls my friend’s name. Only patients are permitted in treatment rooms. I have time to think. To meditate while she meets with her doctor. Instead I bi-locate, tri-locate inside possibilities that will never be
because I left my phone in the car. I feel lost without it.
I find a single scrap of paper. And write. Absorb the moment. What gift is happening now? I breathe in and out. Slowly. My thoughts. Focused one moment, gone the next
because I left my phone in the car. I feel lost without it.
My friend returns. She leaves the aide’s arm and reaches for mine. Communication. Find the difference between sight and vision, want and need.
My friend and I talk. About the trivial, about memories that have lasted. “We’ve had a lot of red lights on this street,” my friend says. She is right. Aware, yet not stuck in the waiting.
My phone rests, messages on hold. Finally, I accept each bite of time.And swallow.
Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself. (Rumi)
Now that I am aware that others know suffering, joy, pain, and every other human feeling the same way, I work with softer weapons. They never hit a target and rarely claim immediate results. However, love and compassion have unexpected side effects. May those side effects explode outside the form of a poem.
It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop. (Confucius)
Reflections of branches and trees will eventually merge with dust and mud on the gray hood of my car.Travel continues.
Television noise fills my brain. A game show celebrates money, the superficial, and glamour. I try to ignore the clamor and read. The written words slide into the air with the program’s artificial I-win hype. Auto repair commotion adds to the confusion.
My car needs help as it ages. I am grateful I own a car.
Finally, I am the only customer in the waiting room. I ask for a quieter program and the mute button appears from someplace behind me. I escape into the semi-freedom of flashing, soundless color. Hours pass. I notice the opening and closing of restroom doors. Basic, banal. Both personal and universal.
“Would you like to watch the news?” an employee asks.
I do and I don’t. The news feels like minor surgery without anesthesia. This station is owned by Sinclair Broadcasting. Its viewpoint is monitored. And limited.
The vote count will continue in an endless loop. I voted early. My husband and I spent election day outside the polls. Encouraging voters. Soaking in sun. Returning an occasional frown with a smile. My choices focus on opportunities—for people who don’t have them. I do not want a senseless battle; it creates war. But I don’t want complacency either.
No matter how the results emerge, I cannot give up. No vehicle, no moment, no individual shines forever.
Move on. Move up. Fall, but find the light again. And again. And again.
terrypetersen 