Being and becoming
Sometimes I wonder about the experience of blindness. It is not something easily imagined; I can close my eyes and wander around my house, counting steps up to the second floor, trailing my hand along the wall to my door at the end of the hallway, tapping my fingers on the edge of my bed and then letting go, stepping out across the carpet, trusting that I didn't leave my shoes in the middle of the floor, reaching until my hand meets the edge of my dresser: and then there's a slight feeling of relief at having completed my journey without bruising my shins along the way.Even when I do this, as I move through the house with my eyes closed I am picturing the walls and furniture around me, drawing on my visual map of the rooms for navigation. My mind's eye pictures my desk where I left it this morning, and lo, my hands find it exactly where I imagine it to be.
I do this sometimes in the morning; I fix myself a cup of coffee and, if I'm feeling brave, close my eyes while I'm still in the kitchen. Holding my coffee cup carefully in one hand, up at the level of my chin so as to not accidentally knock it against an out-of-place chair, I feel my way out to the foyer with my free hand, find the doorknob and pull the door open, step down onto the porch, and close the door; then I edge forward, feeling with my feet for the edge of the porch, and carefully step down, and sit gingerly on the edge of the porch, every movement controlled and slow so I won't lose my balance if one element in my surroundings is not exactly where I think it is.
And still I can picture the journey, though the chairs around the kitchen table provide some excitement, because I'm never sure where they are. I run into them frequently. Sitting on the porch, I can picture the front yard and the houses nearby; I picture cars on the street where they are habitually parked.
All this, the things I picture because I have seen them before, they fall into place as in the world of "being": this is the way I imagine things to be. I take it on faith that Colorado has not cracked in half, that there is not, in fact, a new Grand Canyon in place of the houses across the street. Immediately, I am only aware of the elements in my environment that I come into direct contact with: my coffee cup, the kitchen chairs, the front door, the porch, and the tiny square of sidewalk on which my feet are resting.
I can't be sure that the trees in the yard are actually there until I hear leaves rustling in a breeze; this enters into the world that is "becoming," the world of action and movement. I hear a car driving down the street, tracking it from left to right as it passes the house. The front door opens behind me; someone steps onto the porch.
"What are you doing out here?" I recognize my mother's voice.
It's a good question. I'm enjoying my coffee; I'm paying attention to the feel of sunlight on my skin; I'm imagining what I might see if I weren't temporarily blind.
When I open my eyes, I see one of our neighbors across the street, weeding a flower bed. I can't hear her over there; until now, she didn't exist in the world as I was aware of it. Only now does she enter into the picture.
There are other things I missed, too, because they weren't "becoming" in any tangible way.
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Labels: everyday, imagine yourself here
posted by the alygator @ 11:59 AM
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