Tuesday, November 8, 2016

The Gift of Sight

There is seeing, and there is seeing.

Mild example: Eewok is (finally!) a reader, and she is eager to curl up in bed with a book, which then necessitates a nightstand and lamp. In my error, I got her the Kosher Lamp first, before it had an official base; it took a crack-inducing tumble. 

Now she requires a new lamp, but I was adamant about a nightstand first. Orgiana repeatedly emerged from Homegoods empty-handed and frustrated. I considered possible obsolete pieces about the house that I could lend until the ideal was discovered. 
Whilst cleaning my room on Sunday (more like "half-heartedly hanging up tossed aside skirts") my glance fell on a dark corner. Tucked away, under a desk, was my sister's old white wicker nightstand, complete with shelf. 


See what I mean about seeing and seeing

Sometimes it is based on a frame of mind—there are moments when we are so fakocht that even though our eyes are open, we are so caught up in the fog of our own mind that our vision is fuzzy. 

Sam Anderson, in "Letter of Recommendation," suggests the joys of looking out the window. (From my serious kinfauna-sitting days, taking a baby to a window was a lifesaver; they were usually entranced by the outdoor view.)

As Anderson explains, outside is out of our control, unlike selecting images or video from the internet. As a Jew, I still need to be reminded of that: We've got no control. 

The second message he imparts is this: After witnessing a car crash into a fence, he took a dislike to the driver, neatly boxing and labeling him. Yet what he saw showed something completely different. 
Rear Window
I judge even while trying not to judge. Dan l'kaf zechus is so bloody hard. Yet one day, one gets to a point where assuming the worst of people is more of an effort than assuming the best. One feels better too. 

Then one wonders why she would have opted for bitterness and wrinkles, when the alternative is so much easier on the skin. 

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