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Sunday, September 10, 2017

The Eyeball.

          Healing comes with instigation and instigation comes from awareness.

An ophthalmologist decreed that I needed drain holes lasered into my eyeballs…if I chose not to do this I would likely go blind between now and the dark ages. The idea of losing my sight forced me into a chair and held me in place for every nerve-cringing zap of pain. It was as bad as I had imagined and as worth it as I hoped. Working eyes are an ignition of perception; taste and touch another two.

Eyes see the world outside, a conduit to what is happening on the other side of our inner shenanigans.

An eye does not use fillers, it does not promote a camouflage of what is true. Eyes send pictures to the central nervous system, where the brain grinds non-corrupted information with stale crackers—producing a life prism.
It is difficult to recognize what is in our mish-mash, an at times beautiful mosaic unless a person has remembered when or if a filler was added. Since life happens at a rapid and at times confusing pace, crackers become commonplace, as though they were always in the original product…even though they weren’t.

Our perception is not born with fillers.

Our perception is the quizzical look on a babies face when pureed plums are initially tasted. The flavor is cataloged into tart or sweet, good or bad and the taste buds remember until as an adult the information can be managed. “I should like plums…let’s learn to like plums.”

Removing fillers from a mosaic is not an easy task.

I know this because I’ve been doing it for over fifteen years. This has been an undertaking that is not enjoyable, nor has it always appeared to have an end-game. The last of the crackers have lain obstinately hidden, their essence having been ground into what I termed the dust of  “who I am…who I would always be.”
A few months ago the crackers began revealing themselves quite stealthily so as not to inspire more subterfuge. They hid themselves in plain sight, as metaphors in my writing, crumbs for me to follow until I could see the entire mosaic created from the harm that was done to me as a child. The view was and is startling, discovering who I am beneath all that was.
Without the layers of subterfuge, it is a new world…one I’m not even sure I like. It is the taste of plums for the first time.

Instead of telling myself what is good or bad, tart or sweet, I am waiting. Waiting until the waiting is over and I am ready to see everything for what it is—shells, sea glass, and pinkened-umber tulle…the spirit that exists regardless of the life.

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