vignettes

Truly

"Every person is destroyed when we cease to see him."
—Marcel Proust, Within a Budding Grove

I once knew a woman who lost her sight. I cared for her one or two afternoons each week as I paid my way through college.

I helped her read her mail.

I helped her make tea.

I kept her company.

I watched her, and she "watched" me.

I remember the day she shared with me her story. She woke up, looked out the window, and said to her husband with a sigh, "what a grey day." His silence confirmed what she had long been fearing. The day was bright blue and sunny.

They say that when one sense falters, we rely more on the others to help us perceive our world. So what we may first consider to be a weakness, could actually be the very thing we need to build our strength.

Every so often, I think of Mrs. Zelditch and her journey of learning to "see" again. Her journey of building new strength.

Through her hands as they held your own and as they studied your face, finding the truth in you.

Through her ears as she listened to your words and the spaces between them, looking for hidden messages that you weren't even aware you had.

Through her heart as she felt the weight of your presence, measuring the mood you were in — your level of joy or worry or sorrow.

In other words, Mrs. Zelditch only had room to take in what really mattered: the essence of you.

A little more than two years ago my days went grey, figuratively speaking. I realized that I had forgotten how to see. So I bought a camera and I went on a journey.

And 100,000 shutter clicks later, I have learned (once again) how to see. People, mostly. People I love. People I respect and admire. People I meet in cafes or on the subway or on the street. People pursuing Truth and Beauty. People who inspire me.

And when I am with them, I look for clues. To who they truly are.

I look for their love.

I look for their joy.

I look for their passion.

I look for their purity.

And when I see it, I click.

When you look at your world and the people in it, what do you see?

To free, or not to free?

Yesterday, I lost a battle with my television.

I tried to free myself from its soothing company, only to discover that I still needed it, flaws and all.

The saga began after a week's visit to Prague, city of enchantment and endless beauty. It was a feast for my senses and I found it effortless to keep them occupied.

Over the course of seven days I watched the castle glow pink and green at night and the sun make silhouettes of the saints lining the Charles Bridge in the morning.

I listened to the Vltava river whisper secrets to the birds that took refuge along the water's edge, and I woke up before the sun (and everyone else) so that I could hear my footsteps mark time against the cobblestones as I made my way along Nosticova Street to catch the invisible hands of the invisible person who rang the morning bells of the monastery nearby.

I listened to every combination of harp, cello, bass, violin, piano, and soprano as they filled the air and lifted my soul to the ceilings, the frescoes, and the stained glass windows of St. George's Basilica, the Lichtenstein Palace, St. Nicholas church, St. Michael Monastery and the inner steps of the Narodni Muzeum.

I sipped Cafe Vienna at the Cafe Savoy with a Czech mate who wore a fedora and a miniature felt flag around his neck, and bore chiseled cheekbones and a cleft chin and discussed the merits of romantic servitude as the chandeliers sparkled overhead.

I found companionship in the pages of Bohumil Hrabal, the other Prince of Prague (next to Kafka), weeping for the raw simplicity of his most popular work, "I served the King of England," and packing three more titles in my suitcase to keep him alive long after I left the music and the spires and the bells behind me to come home.

In the span of a week, I found my sensibilities and habits altered. It was as though my very DNA had changed, that Prague's magic and beauty had somehow seeped into me.

I came home purified. Vowing that I would fill my waking hours in San Francisco the same way that I filled them in Prague. I would rid myself of nutrient-poor stimuli and fill the void with more books, more movies, more art, more writing, more "together." And the first step would be ridding myself of my television.

What I learned is that habit has a way of silently enslaving us. It quietly slips into our lives, lulling us into a passive existence by swaddling us in the comfort of predictability, and all the while deceiving us with the illusion of choice. And that even when we are fully aware of the habits that steal from us our time and our lives, we are unable to rid ourselves completely until we have something (or someone) better to substitute.

We are all captive to something. 

Who (or what) holds you in captivity?