A crazy eye thing happened last weekend. A kind of system breakdown that will permanently alter the way I see things. Literally. But probably figuratively, too.
I’m told that eventually my brain will edit what it sees, and I’ll barely notice. I’m quite sure that’s true. My particular brain is excellent at editing out unpleasant things and framing for the best possible picture. Literally. And figuratively.
But here’s the thing: I don’t want to miss it.
Not the aging. Not the shifts. Not the softened edges of sight or spirit. Not even the weird little flashes that tell me something is happening beneath the surface. Because all this midlife recalibration is revealing something: I’m not in control of how things appear, but I can choose how I attend to what I see.
G.K. Chesterton once wrote, “The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.”
In my younger years, I thought wonder was the domain of children. But maybe the deeper kind of wonder comes later, when we’ve seen enough to know how fleeting things are. When our eyes have dimmed just enough that the time horizon shifts. We’re no longer scanning for the next thing, and we finally focus on what’s right here.
Aging eyes aren’t just a physical phenomenon but a spiritual invitation. They ask us to slow down. To notice. To marvel.
The truth is, I’ve been rushing for years. Rushing through tasks and seasons and transitions. Rushing through the kitchen with lists in my head. Rushing through stories that begged to be lingered over. Midlife, with all its discomforts and eye floaters and hormonal plot twists, offers something radically countercultural: the permission — no, the necessity — of slowness.
As the ophthalmologist explained this annoying detachment of the soft cushion behind everything I see, she assured me it was normal. Common. A sign of age. Nothing to do but adjust.
And so, I did what I often do when I don’t know what else to do: I took the dogs outside, I planted something into fresh ground (dahlias this time), I stared at blooming peonies. I adjusted. Not by fixing, but by seeing differently.
Psalm 119:18 has become a quiet refrain in these days: “Open my eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of your law.”
It reminds me that spiritual vision is something we ask for. Something God grants, even — perhaps especially — when our physical sight falters. It’s not about clarity in the usual sense. It’s about attention. Reverence. Wonder.
So today, I’m exceedingly grateful that I’m here, now, to see the peonies bloom — even with imperfect eyes. I’m grateful to be in a faithful community of women who care deeply. Grateful my husband is able to point out the positives and sprinkle soft, goodhearted humor on the rest. Grateful for the contractor coming this morning to repair flood damage and for the chance to refresh old farmhouse floors. And yes, I really do want to paint the walls while all the furniture is out, but maybe painting antique walls is best left to another time, a more clear-sighted one.
Let’s welcome the strange and sacred shift in vision. Let’s not rush to edit it out. Let’s slow the heck down, adjust to the new perspective, and “just” plant dahlias and watch peonies bloom today.
And let’s be a bit bemused that it seems like if I shift my gaze so that I’m looking up at things — literally — it’s somewhat better.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes from Connecticut.
