Be thou my vision...

Monday
My windshield wipers stopped obnoxiously in mid-swipe as I turned off my car in the Harris Teeter parking lot. That is the kind of day I was having. I thought about parking in the “expectant mother” parking spot next to the handicap spots. Who would know the difference? In the end I decided to save it for a day when something happens that’s worse than my favorite pair of jeans ripping. But is there anything worse?

Wednesday
The heat from the fireplace is burning my back. But I don’t move. I just sit there and wait for a good time to break. There is a surfing book on our coffee table that tells the story of a monster wave in California. One that eats people alive like the black smoke on the LOST island. On the couch are two jackets I bought on sale that at the store seemed like things I needed and are now back in the Macy’s bag to be returned. Oh there is such a thick line between want and need and I must have distorted vision to see such a thin one.

Thursday
The night sky has turned my favorite deep blue color. There are hills surrounding Nashville, did you know that? Hills that turn green and orange and red and brown and gray, as they are now. I played a few songs at a church service in Germantown, Virginia last week. Two songs before the teaching and one after. The pastor hardly acknowledged me and as usual in church services other than my own, I felt out of place. Now I am remembering the older woman who came up to me afterwards and asked me if I am shy. Shy? No, I don’t really consider myself shy. She told me not to walk with my head down because I should be proud of what I am doing, I should walk off of the stage with my chin up, she said.

Saturday
There is an art exhibit up at the downtown library called “Altered Vision: Artists look beyond sight loss”. I am staring at bright colored ovals and squares framed by an unfinished wood and telling the story of clouded vision that the artist simulated with special glasses. There is a homeless looking man walking past me and over the railing I can see mothers with their sons and daughters checking out fairy tales and adventures to read before bed. I wander on to a blurred photograph of a child curled up in a ball. I am startled by this image, and it’s power without distinction or shadows. The clarity of the child without a fingernail or an eyelash. The helplessness spills out of the glass frame so that I can hear the child’s fragile breath and see the tired eyes falling asleep. I feel like laying on my side and curling into a ball right there on the stone floor.

There are hills surrounding Nashville, did you know that?