Coming Into Focus

60: (July 2019)

It was the last morning of a visit from my older daughter, who lives in Mexico. She rose early to say goodbye to me before I left for work. I was outside with the flowers, per usual on summer mornings. We strolled on the paths together and wandered over to the pasture, covered with high overgrowth since we no longer have our horse to munch it down. The sun was shining through the tall grass blades and seed heads. I noticed how pretty the light looked shining through, but my daughter noticed something more.

“Look! They’re smoking!” she said jokingly. I looked a little harder, and sure enough, there appeared to be little puffs of smoke coming out of the seed heads. Of course, it wasn’t smoke, it was mist wafting out in soft puffs, barely discernible but quite evident once you spotted them.

“Why do you suppose that’s happening?” she asked. It was curious, because there didn’t seem to be a breeze to shake loose the mist. Then my daughter noticed the source: very tiny insects were buzzing in and out of the seed heads, and when they flew out, a puff of mist would shake free and drift off the plant. Witnessing this had a magical quality to it, like seeing into a secret world.

Then we meandered over to my vegetable patch, which included a few baby brussel sprouts plants. Once again, my daughter spotted something I would have completely missed. “Look! The dew drops are so beautiful the way they’ve lined themselves up on the edge of that leaf!” she said.

A small rounded brussel sprouts leaf did indeed have a circle of tiny dew drops, each the size of a pin head. They were evenly spaced out along the barely visible points along the edge of the rounded leaf. I had to crouch down to see this marvel, but there it was—a bejeweled brussel sprouts leaf!

The experience of the morning stayed with me long after my daughter and I said our goodbyes. How many little wonders do I miss on a daily basis? Isn’t it interesting that two people can look at the same thing, but see largely different things? I wouldn’t have noticed the puffs of mist, no less the tiny insects that were causing them, nor would I have noticed the beauty of the brussel sprouts dew drops without the my daughter’s assistance. I realized that she—a photographer and videographer—looks at things more intently. Consequently, she sees more.

It was such a blessing to experience that morning with her, because I carry the sights of the gentle puffs of mist and that dazzling brussel sprouts leaf within me. They will spur me to look at things a little more carefully so that I won’t miss out on seeing the simple beauty that sparkles all around; it just takes a little more focus.

40: (July 1999)

My children have dubbed the tears that spill out of my eyes when my emotions brim over because I am especially happy or touched by something “happy tears.” But to call them “happy tears” is not quite accurate, because there is a broad range of feelings that bring them forth. I suppose I first became aware of this form of tears by watching my father, who had learned so well to embrace life with all its emotions.

My father cried a lot, not as a young dad, but as he got older; he was only 57 when he died. His Irish blood undoubtedly carried a heavy dose of the sentimental, but it was more than that. Dad felt things keenly and opened himself to the breadth of human feeling. Perhaps living through his final years with a debilitating heart ailment and consequent heightened awareness of his mortality brought life into sharp focus for him. He seemed to relish the moments of his life with intensity, rather than take them for granted. Life touched him with poignancy unparalleled in earlier years, and his eyes would often fill to the point of overflowing as he savored the varied sentiments of life. He was able to acknowledge and express his emotions, rather than shelter himself behind cool walls of emotional distance and control.

My college graduation of many years ago comes to mind, as I think of how much richer my own life has been for his open heart. I sat with about 1,200 students on the gymnasium floor, while thousands of parents, family, and friends sat in the surrounding bleachers. Toward the end of the ceremony, parents were asked to stand and repeat a blessing for the graduates. Somehow I was able to spot my parents right away among the crowd. There stood Mom and Dad blessing me, and tears were streaming down Dad’s face. Those tears went straight to my heart; I felt all the love and feeling captured in them.

The spoken blessing was about having a meaningful journey through life. I knew Dad’s unspoken blessing was to have a vibrant life, deeply felt, expressed, and shared. The gift of his open emotions has been a blessing that has transcended time and his physical life. I can still feel his presence as I gaze through time from that gymnasium floor. Pass the tissues.

60-40:

That memory of my dad on my graduation day is as vivid now as it was almost 40 years ago. I see him in both of my daughters—in their sensitivity, their ability to feel life with all of their senses.

My father left this earthly life before either of my daughters was born. But the joy that he would have felt in knowing and loving them resides in me. There is seeing things with the eyes, and seeing things with the heart. I carry his heart in mine; that’s one thing I’ve got in sharp focus.

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