At first, I was sure it was a headache; you know, the kind anyone would get when kids shove 8 1/2 x 11-sized sheets in front of your face; in the summer heat, during the witching hour, at the same time. The words were blurry, and just too darn close to be seen; they were wavy, and blurry, like underwater. Reading them was painful.
So, the ophthalmologist was right; I need bifocals.
I was sure I would escape this. The whole point of doing yoga everyday is just to trick my spine into believing I’m younger than the 46 years I really am. The spine is the center of the nervous system; trick the spine, and everything else follows — even the eyes, I believed.
Grudgingly, I found myself a nice sexy pair of black bifocals, which my husband adores, but I can never find when I need them. I should get myself one of those old-lady chains. The kids are having a ball with the glasses; but of course, the oldest looks at me with that questioning look; is she crazy or absolutely normal? I think he goes for the former. All four of them are somehow captivated and bewildered with my sudden blindness; yet they persist to shove those papers in front of my face.
Reading forms and papers and books takes way too much time now. I can’t find the glasses, ever. I try to hold the paper far away from my face, but my arms just aren’t long enough to reach that far.
It’s an uncomfortable hazy feeling of mystery to not see what was once so plain and clear. The only way to get back control is to pull other resources that are lying dormant in my brain. Reasoning.
This is true with life. The older I get, the more I see that the obvious answer doesn’t lie on the surface; it’s hidden, yet so clearly there.
The truth is, I don’t think of myself as grown-up enough to slow down, to pay attention to the undercurrent that runs everything that’s happening. I’m not ready to sit back and find that quiet place where you wait for the truth to rise to the surface.
Whether I’m ready or not; my eyes are taking me to that slower place. Bifocas are my constant reminder to wait for that truth to appear; and it does appear, all on its own, in its own time.
Who knew? This is what’s life like with bifocals.