This story is about new perspectives.
A couple of months ago I had an experience I was not prepared for—I got glasses. Since college I knew this would eventually have to happen. Given that I was usually staring at book pages and computer screens and had every intention of doing those two things on a regular basis for years to come, I knew that one day my eyesight would deteriorate to the point of needing glasses. And for eight years I continued to have the occasional passing thought—“One day I’m gonna need glasses.” And then suddenly that day was upon me. Several months ago my mother was visiting me in Boston and made fun of me for not being able to read the advertisements on the other side of the T tracks. Usually I stand on the platform thinking, “Why do they put advertisements up over there if they are too far away for people to read? Stupid.”
Hearing my mother exclaim with shock and amusement, “You can’t read that?!” was a real wake up call.
Oh. It seems glasses day has come.
When I was home for New Year’s I stopped in to get my eyes checked for the first time since the fifth grade. When I was eleven all I had to do was read a chart, so I was unprepared for all the machines I had to put my face in this time around. I had to put my face in a weird contraption and tell the technician when the hot air balloon was clearest. I wondered if there was a scientific reason they chose to use a picture of a hot air balloon instead of a tree or a fish. I presume there is but I didn’t want to seem ignorant so I didn’t ask. I also had to put my face in a contraption that blew a puff of air into both my eyes. Before the first puff I was terrified and kept telling myself that if there were any possibility that this air puff would make my eyeball explode the eye specialist would surely not subject me to it. The puff came. My right eyeball did not explode.
I was relieved until I realized I had to take the same risk with my left eyeball at which point I began reassuring myself all over again that these people were professionals and knew how to avoid exploding eyeballs. Finally, the preliminary tests were over—eyeballs intact. Thank god. I couldn’t help but feel that I had narrowly avoided a terrible tragedy and I was grinning like an idiot when the doctor finally came to see me. She had me put my face in yet another contraption and asked me to read the letters across from me. I read them easily. Huh. My eyesight’s not that bad after all. They do put those T sings kind of far away. She flipped the lenses in front of my right eye. As she flipped the lenses she asked, “Which is more clear, 1 or 2?” We went all the way up to 9 or 10 then repeated the process with the other eye. I found this activity to be more stressful than one would expect because the difference between lenses was sometimes difficult to discern and I was painfully aware of the fact that my prescription depended on my answers. I seemed to pick all even numbers and I became concerned that my disdain for odd numbers, save the number 5, had subconsciously influenced my decisions. I decided not to voice my concerns. I later regretted this decision.
Having finished testing my eyes, the doctor pulled the machine away from my face and I would have gone on thinking my eyesight wasn’t that bad if I had not accidentally caught a glimpse of the letter chart as I got out of my chair.
“Oh, my god I’m really blind!” I blurted out. The letters I had just been able to read with no problem were nothing but little black blurs on the wall.
The doctor smiled, handed me a prescription and sent me next door to have it filled and pick out some frames. A few days later, my mom dropped me and my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Stefani, off to pick up my new adorable vintage frame prescription glasses. This classy eyeglass shop is inside a Wal-Mart. So I put on my new glasses and stood in the archway between the eyeglass shop and the ultimate one-stop-shop. Whoa . . . I could see individual beams in the ceiling all the way on the other side of the store. I could read signs all the way over in the produce section. But something wasn’t right and I couldn’t put my finger on it.
“I feel weird.” I said to Stefi.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know I just feel weird it’s like . . .” suddenly it dawned on me, “I feel short!” Stefi, who might not actually clear 5 feet, looked at me like I was a moron.
“That’s stupid.” She said flatly.
“It’s not stupid. I feel really short.”
“Okay . . . that’s stupid.” It was not stupid. Whenever I looked down the floor was WAY too close to me. Whenever I looked at something near by, it looked stubbier than it should. I felt off-balance and uncomfortable unless I was focusing on something far away. I walked back into the eyeglass store and asked an attendant, who looked weirdly short and extremely fat around the middle, what I should do if I thought my prescription was wrong. She told me to go back to the doctor and have it checked. Oh. Duh. On my way over to the Dr.’s office right next door, a wall of frames distracted me. Eyes wide, legs unsteady, I reached out my hand to touch them like I was unsure they were there.
“Whoooa. It’s like I’m in a 3-D movie.” Stefani raised her eyebrows.
“You look high.”
“I feel high.” I reached my fingers out and wiggled them half expecting my hand to pass through the optical illusion frames in front of me. I almost knocked them off the wall. At that point, my soon to be sister-in-law walked away.
“I’m gonna go look for . . . something.” She disappeared into the super store behind us. Wide-eyed I stared after her still adjusting the display of frames.
Bewildered by this sudden abandonment and still looking like a bug-eyed freak no doubt, I made my way to the Dr.’s office to have my prescription checked. I should have told the Dr. about my hatred of odd numbers . . .
They checked my eyes, checked my prescription—everything was right.
“But I feel so short,” I protested. “Everything up close looks wrong. I wouldn’t trust myself to drive right now or walk down stairs for that matter.”
“That’s all totally normal.”
“So it’s not stupid.”
“No. It will take your eyes a few days to adjust to the prescription. You will also probably get headaches for a while. But after a few days, maybe a week, all that will go away and you will be able to see much better.” Huh.
She was right. After a few days of feeling like I was having a hangover in a funhouse, everything evened out again and I could simply see better. Sometimes if I walk outside without my glasses on I wonder how I ever got around without them. I can see so far now. And with so much precision! For weeks I would just stare at things marveling at the detail I hadn’t been able to see before. Sometimes I still find myself staring in wonder at trees and cityscapes that were nothing but blurs before. Now they seem like the most beautiful works of art and I find myself deeply grateful for the eyewear that allows me to see them fully.
A few weeks ago, I was reflecting on some transitional moments in my life—moments when my perspective shifted in a fundamental way. I thought about the youth conference I attended when I was twelve during which I was overcome by a deep sense of divine love that changed my whole relationship to myself, to others and to life. I thought about that class on the Holocaust I took in college that forever altered my understanding of humanity, God and the world. I thought about the first time I realized I was racist and how painful an epiphany that was. I thought about my first encounter with feminism and how hopeful and yet uncomfortable it made me feel. I thought about my rediscovery of feminist theologian Mary Daly years later, in whose voice I found a new and yet old kind of strength that has empowered me to live in a new way. I thought about my first foray into embodied prayer and how it connected me to the divine in a way that fundamentally altered my spiritual life. I could list so many more moments like these.
Sometimes these perception-shifting moments are joyful and easy to embrace. But all too often they are painful, uncomfortable and confusing—exactly like getting new glasses. My new glasses made me feel uncertain and unsteady, so I thought they must be wrong. Likewise, when we are faced with a new perspective that makes us uncomfortable, changes the shape of our world and makes us feel unsteady on our feet, we often jump to the conclusion that it is a “bad prescription.” Admitting that our vision is the thing that is flawed can be so difficult. No one that I know finds it pleasant or easy to realize that they have been benefiting from or contributing to the oppression of others. No one I know finds it pleasant or easy to realize they have been playing a part in their own oppression. No one likes to realize they’ve been hurtful. No one likes to realize they’ve been ignorant or cowardly or selfish. But we are those things, are we not? And how can we move into a more authentic and abundant way of being unless we face the truth of our imperfection? Examining your reality anew can be scary and even agonizing but it leads to something deeply beautiful—a fuller and freer life with others.
Sometimes we are faced with a new perspective that casts a bright light on our own fear and anxiety, our own bitterness and spite or simply our own unknowing. In those moments, we have a choice: we can reject that new perspective and continue living in the same near-sightedness that has become comfortable OR we can push through the headaches and confusion and allow our vision to be improved.
My new glasses have reminded me of this profound truth—seeing the world and my own soul with greater clarity is painful but also good and beautiful.
So . . . I guess I don't mind seeming like an idiot for a while if it means I get to live life in 3-D. :)
