The Eyes Have It.
I used to think they were Eagle eyes because I could see so well. Each little detail, even in a hurry. Over the last fifteen years I’ve noticed I don’t see the exact detail the way I used to especially from a speeding car. Especially if I’m driving. So I’ve decided some of what I see is habit that my brain already knows. When my eyes see it again, my brain just says ”here ya go...I know this is what I saw there last time." Sassy brain already knows the right color of Flicker’s flash, the pattern of milkweed seed, the hue of shadow on autumn asters. “Close enough” is what it tells me in the nano second of scrutiny before acceptance, quieting doubt.
And now that will have to do, because exactness is not my forte any more. It used to be and that’s how I got to here: by paying very close attention, by noting the tiniest increments of change, by comparing again and again to gain the aggregate I now have.
I never knew why I did it and just assumed everyone did. Now, though, I am very glad I bent in that direction. I find comfort in detail whether it is really what I see this time or not. It pleases me and quiets me to allow my racing brain to follow familiar trails built with my eyes when they were young.
A pattern of movement tells me which birds are messing about in the underbrush without my having to stop and study them. Wrens only flick their tails one way and no one else does that. Towhees hop clumsy. Only they seem to do that. Meadow grass bends in a way that chicory won’t in front of fall winds.
Empty branches move differently if their name is willow or birch. And firs shake their shoulders in differing dances depending on the wind speed. Something in my spinning brain says, “Ahh. That again." And the familiarity feels like a swallow of hot tea.
My heart sings and dances to my eyes’ tunes too. Color or lack of same on a cheek, the flick of an eyebrow or glance, deep grey in scudding cloud banks, pelting chunky rain on glass, a quicksilver glint at water’s edge. Eyes play the heart’s strings.
And sometimes heartsong opens the floodgates to free rivers of tears.