Sacred Connections: Seeing
Sometimes when it feels as if our lives are a bit under a cloud, the world can actually appear almost gray. I recall many years ago after the sudden death of a loved one, it was as if color had gone out of the world, everything had a pallor, a lifeless appearance. Objectively I knew the world hadn’t changed, it was just my ability to see it, be a part of it. And I recall the joy I experienced when my eye caught a glint of light on a parked car; as mundane as it was, it gave me a first glimpse of color returning to my life.
Fast forward to recent years, and things were beginning to seem grayer, dingier. I associated this with aging, not mine of course, but just that many of my furnishings had been around quite a while. The carpets, the towels, the comforter, even the walls all had a somewhat unappealing tint of yellowish gray. Objectively, I understood that a symptom of cataracts could be this graying of color, and I knew I was a candidate for surgery due to increasing fuzziness of vision. But I had mostly attributed this loss of color to the outer world.
About two weeks ago I did have that long delayed first cataract surgery. Oh my! The towels have faded, but not the rug, not the comforter, not the very paint on the walls. Looking out my eye now with its new lens, I can see that pre-surgery it was as if I had been perpetually walking around wearing sunglasses with dingy grayish yellow tinted lens. What I had been projecting outwards was what was going on within me. I wonder, how many other ways might I be doing this still.
Many of us are very aware of how readily we can project on to others or the outer world what is really ours to own. Particularly in these times of greater quarantine and perhaps less frequent contact with the “normal” engaging aspects of our wider world of friends, family, involvements in joyful and meaningful activity.
Our worlds may seem grayer. We may be literally grieving the absence of the life that we previously lived quite comfortably. We may be feeling a bit numbed to the daily headlines of the problems in our world. We may be feeling a touch of despondency or depression due to the length of this struggle.
I heard this despondency loudly earlier this week. It began as a casual telephone conversation, then the caller expressed deep concern for a family member in physical rehab following a stroke, and her own feelings of helplessness in not being able to offer support. What would have been challenging before is so much more difficult given restrictions on travel, on quarantines in care facilities, on difficulty in communicating when one’s usual capabilities are compromised. The feelings of isolation can fall on both the one receiving treatment and the one so longing to be present and help.
I think we are able to let light into any situation when we are able to identify what we can do and do it the best we can. In this situation, with both individuals being strong extroverts, my guidance was “Just call every day. Sometimes you’ll get through, sometimes you won’t. Sometimes you’ll be able to understand what’s being said, sometimes you can’t. But your loved one will know they’re in your thoughts every day even if it’s simply by seeing a missed call."
What we can do may feel tiny compared to the longings and needs within us and around us, but these small signs of love can change our experience of ourselves, our loved ones, and the world. We recall Mother Teresa’s gentle, yet profound words, “Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.” Loving thoughts expressed, heartfelt prayers offered, tiny acts of kindness help illuminate our inner and outer worlds. Let us walk in Christ’s love with gratitude for the gifts of light, clarity, and color; our invitation to the fullness of life even in overcast days.
