A Second Sight

There are some things one never forgets.  I had one almost four decades ago, a very special morning.  I got in my car and carefully drove down Winding Way.  It was aptly named, as it did narrowly wind around the homes on the divided street on which I lived.  I was excited to start the day and get to work.  Soon I was on Prague Street where I had to make a right turn to Geneva Avenue, the main thoroughfare I had to take.  Across Prague was Amazon Park which was bordered by great big trees.  I threw a quick glance at the trees as I waited to get onto Geneva.

“I can see the leaves.  I can see the leaves.  I can’t believe it.” The eye doctor was right.  My contact lenses were a lot better than the regular glasses I’ve worn for years.  From where I was, I usually just saw clumps of green on the trees, but now I could actually see the leaves.

That day did prove to be special.  I saw things differently.  The images were sharper, the colors brighter, the lines much more distinguishable. What a difference the contacts made!  And I was thankful, so very thankful for this new way of seeing things.  Though my old pair of glasses were good enough to allow me to function normally, my contacts made me see better.

Age has brought me a gift, a sight of another kind. One that sees a lot more than just clumps of green or shapes of leaves. Two years ago, in the midst of the worst winter New York had seen in 30 years, I took a photo of the street where we lived, almost completely blanketed by about four feet of snow.  It was such a dreary time specially for one used to the California sunshine. But looking up, I saw the blue sky.  There’s a beautiful blue sky up there.  And I thought, soon this blue sky will summon its friend the Sun, that will melt all that snow away.  The trees will come back to life and the cold will be gone.

Winter does not sit well with me.  I don’t like the cold; I don’t like the black ice on pavements; I don’t like the dirty slosh that the pristine-looking snow turns into.  I don’t like being bundled up from top to bottom looking like a doughy “empanada.” But there is something I like about winter.  When it is about to leave, there are heralds that announce its departure.  Sometimes it is the crocus making its way through the snow.  I see them and say, “You go, girls, defy that Old Man Winter.  Tell him, you’ll push through the white stuff and will once more bring color to the world.”

 Three years ago, we visited the Sachsenhausen work camp just outside Berlin, Germany. This was one of the most depressing places I have been to.  Thousands of Jews were kept prisoners there during World War II. Some died from terrible deprivation, some were executed in the gas chamber, and some simply shot by the guards to terrorize the rest of the prisoners.  The tales told by the tour guide were difficult to listen to.  How can man be so cruel to man?  The guide pointed out a torture pillar standing to remind us of Nazi cruelty.  But there in the midst of this ugliness and horrible memories, next to it was a clump of beautiful blooming violets.  They were nowhere else in the camp.  But here, next to this grotesque pillar, it decided to bloom.  Dear Abby once wrote “Forgiveness is the wind-blown violet which blooms in placid beauty at Verdun.” (or Sachsenhausen?)
 

To see beauty in the midst of bleakness and cold, or catch sight of the delicate beauty of tiny violets next to that which is utterly ugly, calls for a second kind of eyesight.  In the Gospel of Mark, the story is told of Jesus giving sight to the blind man at Bethesda.  His first sight let him see people that looked like trees.  Then Jesus touched his eyes a second time.  His sight was restored and his eyes saw more clearly.  I like this story.