I walked in a Gaussian blur this morning, glasses tucked inside my pocket. It's an interesting exercise, to view the world through imperfect vision. . . . although it could be argued that there is no other way to see things than imperfectly.
I found this softened view at once disorienting and quieting. Neighbor and dog, now smeared along the edges, became "probably Jan and Kira" rather than the certainties they usually are. And the mist, which, yesterday, got in the way of things as it built up on my lenses, had a completely different effect today. No longer a deterrent, it became something I could just enjoy, as it found and held me, its cool fingers whispering "hello."
Halfway through my walk, my eyes adjusting to their new view, I found myself looking for the larger lesson, one I could apply to all the stifling ugliness outside of me. No clouds parted. No booming voice rattled me from my thoughts. But I did see something--namely a large, dark mass huddled under a pine up ahead. My mind went where my eyes couldn't yet take me, from a curious fox to a slumbering man. It wasn't until I was nearly upon it that I realized it was a flattened cardboard box.
The lesson? I need to shed my preconceptions and get close enough to see what something--or someone--really is.
There is something to be said for tossing aside a pair of glasses that guarantees only one kind of seeing.
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