Some lessons are worth learning more than once. This is true of the lessons learned from my recent and first cataract surgery. I expected that the cloudy view of the world from my left eye would be replaced by a cleaner and crisper field of vision. What I did not anticipate was the amount of light which would permeate my new, unclouded lens. When I close the left eye darkness descends. My right lens is simply grimy, eroded and covered by the detritus of all it has seen over 65 years, like a sheer curtain keeping out much of the light. I had no idea how darkened my world had become, the curtain’s descent was so gradual.
My house is so much brighter, even on the cloudy days we have been having. I don’t need more lamps or brighter bulbs, as I had thought. Light reflects from the softest, most absorbent surfaces, not merely from mirrors. Candle light does light up the dining table enough to see the food on my plate. I had forgotten how much light there is in the world. How bright a future can be. I expect even more light after my second surgery.
It is not until we open our minds and hearts, are willing to open new doors, bravely step out into unknown territory, and curiously step into unexpected experiences that we realize how limited our lives and how clouded our thoughts have become; and, how dark our futures seem.
I thought I enjoyed my garden. I had only known half of it. There is no dearth of bees as I had thought; their tiny bodies now gleam against the backlight of flowers, more colorful than I had imagined. Tiny bugs move soil around the base of each plant, opening tunnels for rain water to reach roots. I thought reading had become burdensome. I no longer struggle to pull words from the page; they leap off onto beams of light straight to the retina. I thought my skin and hair had grown dull with age; but, they glow from the energy speeding through my body, alight with oxygen and sugars to grow new and younger cells. I thought the future could only grow darker. I was wrong. The future always glows brighter.
I dreaded the first surgery, terrified it could leave me blind, or with even less vision. I feared my body might reject the new lens, or my body would suffer an allergic reaction to the medications used to make the surgical procedure physically and emotionally comfortable. My worst fear was that I would not be able to hide my fear. I feared I would have a massive panic attack, causing havoc for the dedicated caregivers working so diligently on my behalf. I feared letting them down and shaming myself.
These are the fears I carry in my bag of tricks. They sometimes keep me from bravely opening my heart, stepping into new territory, and exploring unexpected experiences. When I was young the bag of fears I carried was nearly empty, so light I barely noticed; certainly not so heavy it stopped my explorations of the unknown future. As I grew older the bag grew fuller, heavier and more burdensome. No more. I dumped out the bag’s contents this week! The more light let in by my cataract surgery, the lighter my bag became. I cannot wait for my second surgery. I know I learned this many times before; but,some lessons are worth learning more than once.
If only each of us could remember this lesson, unload our bags of fear, and open our hearts to each other. If we could open the closed doors which block us from one another and step bravely into each other’s lives with light and hope instead of fear…I can only imagine how exciting and enlightening that would be. I am so glad I had this surgery. If anyone tells you that you need cataract surgery, don’t hesitate to say, “Great, I am ready!” The truth is is we all need cataract surgery. Some lessons are worth learning more than once.
annarino writes 
Walking in Grace, Louise Annarino,9-27-2014
WALKING IN GRACE, Louise Annarino,9-27-2014
Being human is terrifying. Being aware carries the burden of striving to be correct. To err invites injury to ourselves, to those with whom we share the planet, and to the planet itself. We also fear others who err; and even more so, those who would do us harm. It is a scary world we live in, internally and externally. And yet, living in this the world is such an amazing experience, majestic and breathtakingly beautiful. Our world is of such beauty that we transcend our fears most of the time. How we do so is both delightful and comforting.
We laugh. What a gift. Laughter dismisses fear to such an extant that some of us lose muscle control and “fall down laughing”, making ourselves totally vulnerable to all the scary stuff we know surrounds us.
We cry. What a gift. Tears reduce us to a molten mass falling into one another’s arms with no fear of retaliation or control by the other. We are most vulnerable when we laugh and when we cry. Yet, these moments are often our most memorable, and most satisfying. These are moments of grace.
We can chose to live in grace,even when we are not experience the comforting joy of another’s comedic safety net for our fears, nor the calming security of another’s embrace. We can choose to live in grace when everything around us shouts “danger.” Living in grace allows us to transcend fear. I refuse to be afraid. I choose to live in grace.
When I was a prison social worker I worked in a women’s maximum security facility housing inmates whom society so feared that our courts locked these women away. Visiting those locked into the most restrictive cell block, maximum security, was discouraged. This short-term lock up was to isolate a particularly intractable inmate who had behaved too violently to remain within the general population. They were not permitted to leave the cell for any reason. They were left alone for days or weeks. As a social worker, I believed such an event was a “teachable moment”,when I could perhaps break through the bravado and masks of an inmate who normally would not welcome my company or conversation.
These women in max were starving for human contact. Thus began my frequent visits to max. The first day, the single guard on duty did not know what to do with me, having never received visitors before. But, he unlocked the corridor door and accompanied me to the first cell in which a woman from my caseload was locked up. After about five minutes of standing by the door he asked how long I would be. “Thirty minutes” was too long for him to stand around so I suggested he let me into the cell and he could then go back to his seat. His eyebrows shot to his head as he suggested to me it was not safe. I asked the woman, “He thinks you will hurt me if he lets me inside alone with you.Will you harm me?” After a short pause to consider, she said,”no.” The guard then locked me into the maximum security cell and I told him I would call him when I was ready to leave. After I left that cell, women from other case loads called out my name as I passed by asking to speak with me. I visited every woman in max that day and every few days after. The guard and I followed the same protocol each time: lock me inside, then come when I call to let me out.
The moments I spent locked into maximum security with the most violent offenders in the prison were moments of grace. We shared laughter and tears. We explored the pain and fear that led to the violence. I tried to “always leave them laughing,” and living in grace.
The write-ups for violence on my caseload diminished and extinguished. I was called in for a discussion with the Associate Director and charged with being too permissive. How else to explain why the women for whom I was responsible were no longer getting into trouble? Another bone of contention was my crisis intervention strategy. I had instructed my caseload to yell out “Call Annarino!” whenever they were about to become violent with a guard or other inmate, instead of letting the violent feelings flare into harmful words or actions. Before long the guards knew to call me and everyone waited somewhat peacefully and guardedly, until I arrived. At which time, I explained everyone involved would get a chance to tell their truth without interruption. I dismissed the usual onlookers hoping for a good fight, promising to stop by their work or class site later to fill them in on what happened after they left. This substantially reduced the risk of group pressure and blustering bravado which often led to mass violence. Once only the critical participants were left, the preaching the truth was followed my mediated conversation.
It did not occur to me that armed guards would find it embarrassing for a 22 year old woman weighing 102 pounds could protect them from harm with mere words. Just before I lost my job, I was told my job was not to empower inmates but to treat them as the “dog chained up in the back yard: when they howl, shut them up.” Instead I had given them a voice. It did not seem to matter that their voice was calm, peaceful and truth-seeking rather than violent curses accompanied by physical attacks. They had learned to live in grace, which seemed to scare people even more. This is the power of non-violence. When we let go of fear, we find truth and the truth is what sets us free.
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