Learning to See The Rev. Colleen M. McDonald October 5, 2003

Almost a year ago, I went in to have my eyes checked and received shocking news:

"Bifocals," the optometrist said. "I’d recommend bifocals."

(I hadn’t imagined myself wearing bifocals for at least another twenty years!)

The optometrist told me he could give me a pair of reading glasses instead, if I didn’t mind taking my glasses on and off all day. Bifocal lenses required some getting used to, he admitted. My new glasses would incorporate three different prescriptions, and I’d have to train myself to look through the top of the lenses for distance, and the bottom, for objects close at hand. But in a couple of weeks, the optometrist assured me, I’d probably be used to them, and my brain would make the adjustments for me unconsciously.

"Fine," I told the optometrist, feeling a bit anxious but also intrigued at the prospect of learning how to see, in a different way-- an ability I had taken for granted my whole life had suddenly become new and challenging... something to think about.

The optometrist’s prediction held true. Actually, I recall it took me a bit longer than two weeks to accommodate to the change, but these days, I really do forget that my newer lenses are any different from the more ordinary lenses I wore for years. It’s as though I always knew how to see with bifocals.

Clearly, every person needs to learn how to walk and talk, how to play a note on the violin or write a note on a computer. But seeing is such a vital and basic ability, it would seem that we come by it as automatically and effortlessly as breathing-- and yet all of us who have the capacity for sight go through a visual training period in early childhood.

"‘Babies are born into a bright, buzzing, confusion,’" states Dr. Ione Fine, an experimental psychologist who has studied the origins of vision. At first, everything in front of our eyes is a meaningless jumble. We can no more distinguish and identify particular objects in our field of vision than we can perceive and describe individual molecules of oxygen coming in through our nostrils. But over time-- as our brain matures, as we experience the world through all our senses, and as the people around us train us in a particular world view-- we learn to make sense of what we see. Out of the amorphous mass we begin to recognize mom’s face-- and "not mom’s" face. We are able to spot a friendly dog-- and we reach out-- or we see a red hot stove-- and pull back. We learn to distinguish a blue triangle from a blue square or a green triangle.

As our ability to see is trained and reinforced, we become increasingly dependent on our vision. Seeing, rather than being a merely mechanical ability, becomes (for most of us) our primary orientation toward the world-- our bias for interpreting and negotiating the world. "Our eyes," states writer Diane Ackerman, "are... the greatest monopolists of our senses. Seventy percent of the body’s sense receptors cluster in the eyes, and it is mainly through seeing the world that we appraise and understand it." (229/230)

We English speakers use the language of vision as a metaphor for concepts such as understanding-- "Do you see what I am saying?"-- discovery-- "We shall see about that"-- and knowledge, also known as "enlightenment." Blindness is equated with ignorance and insensitivity, while truth is a matter of "seeing the light." "Seeing is believing,""I saw it with my own eyes," "What you see is what you get," we say, as though vision is the most significant and trustworthy way of perceiving reality.

Vision is the only one of our senses judged by such an exacting standard that most of us will fail our "eye test" well before we reach old age, causing us to turn to adaptive aids (eyeglasses, contacts) in order to see "correctly." Our eyesight is also the only sensory modality we routinely enhance beyond our "normal" capacity, using tools such as mirrors, magnifying glasses, microscopes, telescopes, and binoculars to improve upon what we can see through the naked eye.

Even so, many of us do not see as well as we might.

"When an old man [who] had lived most of his life on what was considered to be one of the loveliest islands of the world returned to spend his retirement years in the big city, someone said to him, ‘It must have been wonderful to live for so many years on an island that is considered one of the wonders of the world.’ The old man gave that some thought, then said, ‘Well, to tell you the truth, if I had known it was so famous, I’d have looked at it.’"

I will never forget my first sight of the Grand Canyon. Awestruck, I burst into tears and became speechless. Like Monet and his water lilies, I couldn’t get enough of watching it go through its transformations of color and shadow as the light shifted throughout the day. After my rewarding first glimpse of the Canyon, I started observing other people stepping up to the railing for the first time. I recall one woman who peered out for just a moment, then turned on her heel and declared, "Okay. I’ve seen it," and headed back to her car.

Why did the man and the woman in these stories fail to appreciate the magnificent scenery that brought other people so much pleasure? Artist Scott Nelson has an answer: "The sense of sight," he maintains, "exists largely to filter out things that aren’t meaningful to what it is we think we’re looking for."

Have you looked, really looked, at the sky today, or the fall colors? As you think about your trip here from home this morning, can you remember something beautiful or interesting you saw along the way?

Now take a moment to become more aware of the beauty that surrounds us in this sanctuary; what do you see that you might otherwise never have noticed?

How much time do we spend sleepwalking through life, looking out through our eyes without truly seeing?

Says painter Georgia O’Keefe, "Nobody sees a flower-- really-- it is so small it takes time-- we haven’t time-- and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time."

What we see-- or don’t see-- in the world around us has more to do with what goes on in our minds than what transpires within our sight organs. And the mind’s eye can be hampered by blind spots.

In the ancient land of India, a wild elephant that belonged to the king was on a terrifying rampage. From village to village it raged, destroying everything in its path. The king’s soldiers did nothing, so no one else dared do anything more.

One day a Hindu man on a spiritual pilgrimage decided to leave the village for the nearest town. Recent sightings of the elephant suggested that the raging animal was approaching from that very direction. The villagers warned the pilgrim to postpone his trip, but he would hear none of it. Indeed, fresh from a lecture by his guru, he welcomed the opportunity to show everyone how enlightened he was. "Haven’t you learned to see our God, Rama, in all things?" he asked the villagers. "Rama is in that elephant, and when I meet him there, he will protect me."

The villagers decided it was pointless to argue with the man, and so the pilgrim set off. Almost immediately, he came upon the wild elephant, who picked the man up with his tusks and threw him violently against a tree. Fortunately, some passing soldiers rescued him and took him to a healer who tended his wounds.

It was months before the man was well enough to travel. As soon as he could manage it, he went to see his guru.

"It was all a lie!" he complained to the teacher. "You told me to see Rama in all things. That’s exactly what I did when I came upon that elephant, and look what happened to me."

The teacher asked quietly, "Did you not see Rama in the villagers who warned you not to travel?"

The man’s preconceptions about what he was about to see blinded him to the reality that was staring him in the face. What do we already know– or think we know– about whatever it is that we’re looking at? Have we seen it before? How do we feel about it? Why are we looking at it? What are we looking for? What do we hope we will see? What are we afraid we might see? Answers to all these questions, and more, influence how and what we see. Sometimes our mind’s eye views life through rose-colored glasses; sometimes, the lenses are dark or shattered.

Almost as soon as I met her, I learned that my friend Betsy was a Christian. Though our religious viewpoints were different, we had other things in common and became close friends. Then I discovered she was a Christian fundamentalist. Suddenly, my imagination was off and running, and I saw my wise and loving soul-mate transforming before my eyes into an ignorant, threatening, stereotype. How could I have been so wrong about Betsy, I asked myself. Fortunately, I took the time for some soul-searching and eventually came to realize that it was my judgments about fundamentalists-- and not my trust in Betsy-- that had been off base.

Attitude as well as anatomy can cause blurred vision, near-sightedness, far-sightedness, and even blindness. Optometrists cannot correct defects in the mind’s eye. But there are others we can turn to for help in learning to see.

Children are our first guides and role models. When we see with the eyes of a child, the world is fresh and new and full of wonderful things we have never seen before-- light, shadow, shapes, colors, our toes, our nose, crayons, kaleidoscopes, fireflies, fireworks, falling snow, and snowing leaves. A young child sees without the blinders of pre-conception or prejudice; a child views the ordinary as extraordinary:

A little boy became separated from his mom. As friendly strangers joined him in his search for her, they asked him what his mom liked like. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world," he said. "There she is," he exclaimed finally, rushing into the embrace of a plus-size woman with a large nose and crooked teeth.

You can’t take a walk with a small child if you are trying to get somewhere in a hurry. Zen Buddhist Thich Nhat Hahn reminds us of a child’s way of seeing things, when he writes, "I like to walk alone on country paths, rice plants and wild grasses on both sides, putting each foot down on the earth in mindfulness, knowing that I walk on the wondrous earth... People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don’t even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black curious eyes of a child-- our own two eyes. All is a miracle." (12)

We can also be guided by prophets and visionaries who look at the brokenness and separation around and among us and see wholeness. The Jewish tradition speaks of tikun o’lam-- the healing of the world-- as though the essential goodness of the world was somehow shattered one day, like a beautiful piece of glass or pottery, and its fragments scattered to the four directions. It is our task, today, to find all the pieces again and put them back together.

Black Elk speaks of a vision in which he recognized that "the shape of all things of the spirit... live together like one being. And I saw that the sacred hoop of my people was one of many hoops that make one circle wide as daylight and starlight. And in the center grew one mighty flowering tree to shelter all the children of one mother and father. And I saw that it was holy."

And a peacemaker tells this story from Japan about the miraculous transformations that can occur when we see one another heart to heart:

At the end of a workday, a drunk man entered a crowded subway car. Flailing about in a blind rage, he knocked a female passenger to the floor. The atmosphere was filled with tension, as everyone wondered who might be next. A young man in the car decided that someone had to do something, so he rushed forward to tackle the drunk man. Locked in a wrestling hold, the two men began swinging at each other. "Hey!" a loud voice called out to them. They turned and saw it belonged to a small, elderly gentleman. Motioning to the man who was drunk, he said, "Come on-- come over here-- you-- yes, you." The man obeyed.

"What were you drinking," he asked the drunken man.

"Sake."

"I like it, too. My wife and I used to drink it under the persimmon tree."

"I like persimmons too."

And so the two men got to talking. It turned out that the drunken man had recently lost his wife.

"It’s been hard, hasn’t it?" asked the elderly gentleman. "Won’t you sit down and tell me about it?"

"As the train pulled into the next station," notes the storyteller, "the young man stood to exit the train and turned one last time to see the large, drunk, dirty laborer lying with his head in the lap of the old man, tears running down his cheeks. The old man stroked his hair."

When we look through the eyes of a spiritual healer, we see with compassion and humility, for we are aware of our own wounds and flaws and longings. We turn to greet the homeless man on the corner with a smile, rather than uncomfortably looking away. We do not lose sight of the inherent worth and dignity of the co-worker who is trying to get us fired or the former spouse we would no longer have anything to do with if we had the choice. A healer’s vision helps us see our small, solitary effort– to be a loving parent, perhaps, to raise money for a good cause, or to be a peacemaker-- as a drop in a bucket that can be filled some day, as each of us comes into our power to make the world a better place.

"Childlike" and "visionary" are adjectives frequently used to describe artists, another group of people who can help us learn to see. True artistry, in all of its forms, may be less a matter of technical skill than it is a way of viewing the world: observing with a keen and curious eye, stepping outside conventional knowledge and assumptions, attending to both what is there and what is not there, and suspending judgement about what one sees and what one produces. Artists take the left side of their brain with a grain of salt-- the controlling side that analyzes, categorizes, orders, reasons, counts, and thinks logically and linearly. And artists know how to tap into the right side, which is nonverbal, tolerant, concrete, in the moment, poetic, spatial, intuitive, holistic, and imaginative, and thinks outside the box. Julia Cameron, in The Artist’s Way, writes, "Logic brain perceives the world according to known categories... A fall forest is viewed as a series of colors that add up to ‘fall forest.’ It looks at a fall forest and notes: red, orange, yellow, green, gold... Faced with an original sentence, phrase, paint squiggle, it says, ‘What the heck is that? That’s not right!’... Artist brain says, ‘Hey, that is so neat!’... It thinks in patterns and shadings. It sees a fall forest and thinks, Wow! Leaf bouquet! Pretty! Gold-gilt-shimmery-earthskin-king’s carpet!" (12 - 13)

When we look at the world through the eyes of an artist, we embark on a scavenger hunt for color and pattern and novelty, and we never cease to be surprised. We focus not only on the world as it is– we also imagine and depict the world as we’d like it to be. We appreciate and celebrate the fact that no on else sees the world exactly the same way we do-- and we respect other people as artists in their own right, who can lead us into deeper knowledge about what we see, and also show us things we’ve never seen.

Finally, there is much we can learn about the art of seeing from the so called "sight-impaired." People like Mike May-- the subject of this morning’s reading-- who has no reason to envy those of us who are not blind. People like the visually challenged painters, sculptors, and photographers whose work is currently being shown in a special exhibit at the Rockford Art Museum.

Mary Solbrig, an artist in her eighties who is experiencing macular degeneration, has several nature paintings on display. She notes, "As my eyesight gets worse, my paintings get better." Tara Innman, who has glaucoma, captured the progressive deterioration of her eyesight through a series of paintings done from the perspective of the same chair in her ophthalmologist’s waiting room. And Lynette Denny, who has become blind from diabetes, creates sculptures with the help of a meditation technique that helps her visualize three dimensional objects and turn them around in her mind’s eye so that she can observe them from different angles. Scott Nelson, the curator of the exhibit, asserts, "What may at first be works of art about sensory restriction are revealed to be enhanced expressions of available sight, visual memory, imagination, and dreams. Limitations, restraints, impairments, and handicaps are evidenced by the works of art in this exhibit to be a creative force." Of Lynette Denny’s blindness, Nelson writes, "When Lynette was first told that she would lose her sight, she imagined blindness to be a black box. To her surprise, the black box would be discovered to be full."

When we see with the eyes of the blind and the partially sighted, we recognize that there are many sources of knowledge about this world and that only one of them is our eyesight. We develop our senses of touch and taste, smell and hearing, and find out things about our world that most fully sighted people never notice. If our eyesight once was normal, we realize what a precious gift it was. But if we have always been blind, then maybe we wonder if normal eyesight really is all it’s cracked up to be.

Armida Alexander, one of our affiliated ministers, recently underwent surgery to repair a hole in one of her retinas. What is it like to have a hole in your retina, I asked her. Here is part of her answer:

"What does it mean to be unable to see what is right in front of me? It’s true that I have frequently ignored what is perfectly plain and visible to others. Do the holes point toward the larger holes in my consciousness? Or, do they suggest that I should ignore what is plain, to search out the background and depth of things? Is there a message here for a new direction for my life? Maybe it is time to slow down -- to see things as they really are – all hazy, blurred together in a swirl of color and light. Am I, in fact, seeing less well but more truly than before?"

May we have eyes, and ears, hands, and hearts, that delight in beauty. May we take the time to open up all the windows of our beings-- to look out at one another and everything around us with a sense of wonder, creativity, humility, compassion, and wholeness. May we give thanks for all we are able to see. And may we give thanks, as well, for everything we are still learning to see.