Eyes

How strange, that we can never really see our eyes...

Every morning, I can barely open my eyes.

I used to think I had a sleep disorder, because I can’t remember ever waking up feeling rested. I do not wake up naturally before my alarm, and my eyes never “pop open” as so many of my morning friends say theirs do.

When I was a teenager, I would stay overnight at my best friend’s house, because I lived so far away from school. Every morning, she would be up early, already showered and dressed and blow-drying her hair when I would stumble into the bathroom. She laughed, every time, because before my body would enter the room, my hand would stretch clumsily through the doorway, fiddle with the dimmer until it was dim enough for my tender eyes. Only then would I come in. We would stand there together, her, laughing, me, rubbing my eyes as I stood in my underpants, wondering how anyone could feel so awake.

My dad was a morning person, too. He was also a night owl. I actually don’t know when he slept. But every morning, he would trek down to the basement, radio on high, and begin his workout. By the time I got up, he was already in the shower, singing.

My mom was also a morning person. Her mornings were gentler than my father’s, though they also often included exercise; other times, she would play the piano.

I remember when my mom would try to get me up for school each day, and everyday I would protest. She would begin with a gentle back rub, saying quietly, “It’s time to get up!” When I did not get up, she would come back to peek in my room. “Okay, you gotta get up!” she would try, a little more urgently. A few minutes later, I would hear a loving but impatient shout from the kitchen, “Abby, breakfast is ready!” A few minutes after that, she’d start the car, come back in and holler, “Abby, we gotta go!!”

And still, I would close my eyes.

I really wasn’t trying to be ornery - I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.

Maybe I did have a sleep disorder. Or maybe it was the scoliosis. Or maybe some people are just tired.

Like my dad, I have always been a night owl - just without the morning lark part. And, like my dad, I would lay awake at night, my head spinning about death, life, and my place in the universe. There we would both be, eyes wide, brains churning, on different sides of the same wall, while the woman we both loved most, slept.

The difference was that my dad would channel his spinning thoughts into journaling, or reading self-help books. At six, seven, eight years old, I did not consider these options. So instead of writing or reading, I would stare at the ceiling. I would envision my life, 20, 40, 80 years into the future, and become scared and sad.

There was one night I had a vision of myself, old and withered, staring down into my own grave, watching myself be buried. This vision frightened me so, that I started crying until my mom came to check on me.

“I don’t want to die,” I told her through my tears. “Time goes so fast!”

I saw her almost break into a laugh, but she held it together.

“Oh, Abby…” I could feel her searching for the right words. “You have a long life ahead of you. You have so much time.”

I knew that she had no way of knowing this, but I tried to believe her. At least I could feel that she loved me, was trying to comfort me, and that was all that mattered.

So I closed my eyes, and tried to focus on feeling her hand as she rubbed my back, both of us hoping and wishing and praying that life was as long as she said it would be.

When my father died, some ten years later, the only part of his body they could use were his eyes. Apparently the brain tumor had poisoned all of his other organs, which I still cannot understand. I remember, at 16, feeling like it was such a waste: here was a man who had worked his whole life to keep his body healthy, his lungs clear, his heart strong… And now, the doctors were telling him that his body was unfit?

I was angry for him. I wanted to tell the doctors to check again, to see how fit he was, how clean his lungs, how perfect his heart! But they had already taken his body away, and I didn’t have the strength to argue.

And now, someone can see, because of my father’s eyes. The irony and the beauty: because I can no longer see my father, someone else can see everything.

How strange, that we can never really see our eyes. We have mirrors, we have photographs, we have videos, yes. But an eye is not like an arm or a hand or a foot. We cannot watch it do what it does, un-self-consciously. 

Perhaps this is the gift of an eye.

Perhaps by not seeing the thing that sees, we glimpse what it’s like to feel whole, complete, to be the subject, the seer, the Self. 

And then, maybe, once we’ve seen, we need to close our eyes again, so we can feel that wholeness. So we can simply feel without the distraction of sight.

Maybe that’s why it’s so hard to open my eyes: I’m still just trying to feel.

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Thank you for being here. To read more about this project, or to join me in this creative journey, you can read this post, or simply follow the prompt below:

• Choose one part of your body, then write or create something inspired by that part. It can be a poem, an essay, a song - even a painting or a dance! Whatever the creation, let it be an exploration of your own body, and all the bodies you have been influenced by: parents, ancestors, friends, enemies, doctors, teachers, therapists, pets…

Our next prompt is: FEET.

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Winter/ Spring Events w/ Abby

• Mexico Retreat // Feb 24-Mar 2

• Community Kirtan // Fri, Mar 22, 7:30-9pm