The unexpected vision

A few weeks ago, I found myself in a little apartment in Sunnyside with my oldest friend. 

We sat, side-by-side, holding our mugs of strong Yorkshire Gold tea (just a little milk for me; milk and spoonfuls of sugar for her) and cried.

There was a lot going on.

In the weeks that followed that afternoon, a lot continued to go on. Hard work followed. 

The whole world has started to look different. It's a little bit like trying to focus through a 3D movie where nothing's lined up quite right. Or, maybe like staring at a hidden picture image so hard that you're going cross-eyed because you just know there's something in there that you're supposed to be able to see. Before that moment, I hadn't been aware that there had been something extra to see, and now that I know, it seems of critical importance.

I am starting to see time, and accomplishment, in a different sort of way. When all you can see is the next step in front of you, always falling forward from one moment to the next, every peak and valley feels extreme and never-ending. There's no context and no agency; no understanding of amplitude and frequency in the greater picture of a whole life. You're not able to see the vast landscape of criss-crossing paths and threads, each with their own overs and unders, ups and downs. 

Obsessed with the perfect cultivation of a single rose bush, you fail to plant seeds for next year, or perceive the marching encroachment of ground ivy which threatens to destroy the work of decades. It's a sort of terrible tunnel vision that you don't know you have until you learn how to look up and out. 

When I look in the mirror, I still see "the young lord." I see his all-consuming hunger, his desperation to be loved, his terror of rejection, his manic intensity, his passion, and his howling emptiness. I see the demons that he lets ride alongside him who promised a balm to all of these things, but who delivered only more of the same. I see that he is exhausted. 

I also see a brief shadow of "the saint," who hid that damaged little fellow from the world for years, like a field dressing or a smothering pillow. She made herself small and quiet, unchallenging and unappealing, endlessly patient and infinitely generous, self-sacrificing with Marian devotion, asked no questions and demanded nothing. She was paralyzed by pain. I love and forgive her.

I think, perhaps, there is another person starting to smile back now as the potter continues to turn the wheel. They are both, and neither, but they're more complete. I think other people could see them in me before I could. I think I will love them best of all, if I am brave enough.