a beautiful life
Life is beautiful. Not always, to be sure, but the moments of beauty and peacefulness exist, I think, to remind us that there’s much more perfection in each moment and within us than we usually realize.
Throughout the first part of the year, I’ve observed many different reactions to the good aspects of life. Those who are acutely conscious of the pain of others and the dire situation of the world, and our role in making it so, tend to feel guilty and allow this sense of shared suffering to gray out the happiness and good fortune they may feel. Others who are more self-centered have reacted by gradually habituating to an ambiance that ranges from anxiety and helplessness to obsessive fear regarding just about everything that has an element of risk — which comes to be life itself. And at the far extremes are those who react by hoarding what they have, trying to amass more, and justifying their belief that they’re deserving and others aren’t.
Should we suffer because other people are suffering more? Yes, would be the short answer: that’s what compassion means. But when we lose the capacity to see beauty, to wonder at the simple things life gives us for free, and to be renewed and to grow in understanding of what it means to have this gift of a human life … well, then I think something’s gone wrong. We survive because there are natural periods of coolness, wholeness, and ease. In fact, they last longer than our grasping and fear. This is what sustains us.
As much as I never thought it possible, in some ways my lack of vision has proven to be a gift. Not being able to see well (or at all, at times) has forced me to listen to and hear things that most others don’t, and it’s created a much greater sense of mindfulness and contemplation during the day. It’s also greatly enhanced my morning prayer routine, as I’m always aware that there’s much for which to be grateful, not least of which is the day ahead of me.
Prayer allows me the time to hold in my heart and mind, by name and image, all those I want to think about with special intention. The moment I get on my knees, I’m humbled by a spaciousness that’s, of course, already there but masked by thoughts, restlessness, and dissatisfaction. My low vision makes it possible to quickly settle into those precious moments when I do see the raspberries, smell the fragrance of the basil, and taste the salty dense tomatoes studding the loaf of bread.
And lest we think that the less fortunate on Earth are incapable of experiencing the same thing, I’m reminded of various conversations I’ve had with my friend Otan, a man younger than I who has spent much of his life working among the peasants of Africa and South America. Listening to him say that he’s never been around as much joy as he is with those folks who have so very little will forever be one of the greatest lessons I’ve learned about my own poverty and ignorance.
At the core, we’re all the same, and sooner or later all our defenses are stripped away. Those moments of rest and wholeness are free and aren’t dependent on other people, health, wealth, or even love. They’re there, I think, to teach us something.
Earlier today I had a conversation with a retinal surgeon who’s perfecting a treatment for macular degeneration, which could in turn be of great benefit to those of us with similar disease pathologies. I’m eager to learn, curious about what these moments will teach me, and wondering how all of this will define the human I’ve yet to become. While there’s no way to know what lies on the other side of this possibility, my faith ensures me that I'll be fine, regardless of the outcome.
There will undoubtedly be more later.
