#blind may be an inevitable metaphor for a species that, in the main, relies so heavily on one particular sense to make its way through the world. It turns out there are other people in the world who see a greater range of colors than most; it turns out there are animals that see a greater range of colors than any human – and we see a greater range than any member of some other species.

Would we, would they, consider the others #blind?

Would a dog who could only smell scents in the range that I can suddenly feel blinded, with a more limited sense of the world? I wonder.

When a family member meets the legal definition of #blind – when she reads Braille in preference to monumentally magnified text – then the inevitable metaphor becomes a commentary, intended or not, on someone I dearly love.

Let’s face it, with blindness comes a certain degree of ignorance. I know more things about my environment, because I can see it, than someone who can’t see it does. I’ve spent a good deal of time serving as a guide through unfamiliar spaces. And I’ve read many, many menus aloud because there wasn’t one available in Braille.

Blindness, however, is not a moral condition, and that’s where the metaphor frequently fails. Ignorance is not a moral condition, either. It’s a state of knowledge, and best of all, it’s correctable. Someone who can’t see overcomes their ignorance of their environment in different ways – some with dogs, some with canes, some with a supportive elbow, and nearly all with repeated experience.

In short, the average #blind individual routinely seeks to learn what they do not know.

When we use the metaphor, however, all too frequently the person described as “blind” is one determined to maintain their ignorance. That’s a slander. I know from experience that a #blind person can be plenty stubborn, but determined to maintain her ignorance? No. What would be the point?

What is the point of determined ignorance?

Far better to feel your way through the world. Far, far better.

There are plenty of things #stranger, I guess,

Than a crocus in the snow. 

But on the thirty-first of March

I’d prefer the snow

Had stayed a #stranger. 

With the snow finally vanishing

The water-logged soil beneath takes on new character,

Or rather clingy character:

It grips and it will not let go. 

All in all,

I choose to ignore it

While I can

And take solace in

The sweetness of

Mississippi #Mud Pie. 

 

After fever, cough, and chills

#healing comes and I am grateful.

It’s not so swift as it used to be.

I guess #healing aged as much as I;

We both move more slowly than we did.

#healing comes with time.

How long, I wonder, will it take to heal from grief?

And grief, and loss, and loss again?

Too, too many gone who had a place within my heart

And too, too many gone whose place was in the hearts

Of others.

#healing comes with time – long time

And time, of course, given to #healing

Not frittered to distraction.

I’m much better at the latter.

Worse still, I find, is #healing from betrayal,

Betrayal in a promise given,

Betrayal in a trust conferred.

Betrayal, if I’m honest, which I have committed

As well as that which I still suffer now.

Now: there’s the word.

Why does #healing take so long

When the hurt is so, so deep?

#healing comes with time

#healing needs much time

Which leads me then to wonder

How long after the creatures God had made

Betrayed the trust implanted in their souls at birth,

How long after we rejected God’s out-reaching

Hands and arms and grace,

How long after we denied, or ran,

Or for silver’s sake

Betrayed

Did it take

For God’s own #healing to arrive

And dry the tears

Of the Divine?

#cloud is an ephemeral creation

Rather like its element of water

It wisps across the sky in lacy veils

Incarnadined by sunset

Then settles greyly, grimly onto a groaning planet

Which then rejoices in life-bearing rain.

Even photographers cannot agree:

A grey day on the beach muffles drama

But lends softness to the portrait.

The fog bank settles like a wall

But parts to let the traveler pass –

Which the unwary captain may regret

When reef proves less permeable than mist.

I’m still most captivated by the rarest view of #cloud

(At least in my experience)

Looking from the odd side, as it were,

Above the cloud.

They float, I float,

Far above the ground.

I may not walk among the angels yet

But what a dance that will be!

When soft mist bears the weight of foot

And cold wall parts so hand and hair can fly

Away in celestial exaltation.

So I tell myself, knowing full well

That whatever life may be when this one ends

It is more difficult to define in the here and now

Than a #cloud.

I’ve never been, precisely, homeless. 

I’m securely (so far) settled in the 1%

(Not in this country,

But certainly in this world).

When I’ve had a long day

And I suspect there’s viruses at play

I have a comforter

Of bright cranberry tones

To wrap my weary corpus. 

I don’t care for it, much,

This place I live,

But the rain that’s falling stays outside

And my comforter does not need

To turn aside the chilly wind. 

And yet I’ve felt the empty space,

The yawning gulf within that yearns

For #home. 

A place refreshing to the body and the soul. 

A place where shelter makes a space of calm. 

Pull up the cranberry comforter, then. 

This son of earth, and stars, and spirit

Needs refreshing, needs renewing,

Needs a #home. 

 

It is a curious element, #water.

It quenches thirst.

It bows the head of fire.

It cools hot feet.

But I can’t quite help seeing

What they saw when looking out to sea

In Indonesia and Sri Lanka,

Echoed later on the eastern shores

Of Japan.

Or on a different horrid day

In ancient Crete when the great wave

Left an empire floundering.

Liquid water, snow and steam

(Did you know that water waits for dust

So it can “remember” how to freeze?),

I am a creature made less from the dust of earth

Than from earth’s great waters.

Stuff of life, stuff of rescue,

Stuff of balm, stuff of destruction.