I remember when I was finding sanctuary in books, my door firmly closed against the exploding rage in the hallway, I was reading a Victorian novel about a short sighted woman. She was in a stone house peering out the tower window but could not see.
Although I had spent my life up to the age of 13 unable to see clearly, my mother had finally understood that I seeing impaired in my distance viewing. The optometrist called my vision bordering on blindness. When I got glasses I was delighted by the detail in the distant landscape. So the passage in the Victorian novel created in me my first really deep understanding that circumstances can effect how well a person can see the world.
Born in another age, I would continue to be unable to recognize people as I walked toward them. It did not help my introversion that I dare not call out a name because I could not ascertain what the other coming at me was called. I made many mistakes and finally learned to not even attempt to connect. Perhaps some of the extra hot sauce on my introversion was created through the blurred vision circumstance.
In the novel, the townspeople down below in the street thought the woman to be witch like. She was reclusive and constantly staring down at people. They mistook her disability for some configuration of evil.
Although I was only 14, I instantly realized that being born in another era; mistaking other people because of short sightedness (mine or theirs) ; lacking compassion were all possibilities in the birth lottery.
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However, I can only sit with this particular now.
My work at present is to be more gracious to myself. My harshness; my self-discipline; my complete near sighted focus has served me well. But I am starting to open up to a clearer vision of myself as simply a child born into a life on earth who spends the next 70 years trying to find the ground under my feet.
I have accepted that I cannot see clearly the particulars of this life.
What happened, happened. What will happen is unknown. I walk barefoot in my garden feeding my plants or I sit and cry with the chanting of Krishna Das. I am becoming me.
It is always now.