More Than the Eye

After I read awhile this morning by the huge wall-length window over-looking Kadiköy, I put my book on my lap, opened over my knee, and I let my eyes focus on nothing. I think of it as my way of daydreaming. But this morning I couldn't help but analize it a little.

I was leaning forward, stretching my back and letting the sun rest on my face and I noticed a tiny mosquito-like bug on the bottom of the window, crawling. I saw the birds outside the window flying, the shadows on the wooden floor from the frames of the window, my stocking feet, and the small circle of cracking paint on the wall by the radiator. I was consciously thinking about how I can see in so many directions and places at one time.
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I was also thinking about it being a Sunday morning. I could hear the traffic start to move outside, the birds singing (or complaining about all the bugs who have decided to reside inside the apartments intead of outside where they should be). And I'm missing Sunday mass at St. Mary Cathedral.

I miss my chosen pew, the brown covered kneeler, the rituals, the clamor of the locals. I miss the "one" voice when we pray together in unison. The trust, the hope in forging forward each week,
the reminders of the Master's hand, the building of trust in our ability to be good if we could only believe we are good. The practice of praying for the reminders each week to move forward together.

So, in thinking about church, I realized I got this ability to see peripherally so well from my early practice as a child going to mass. I was trained to look forward to the altar "no matter what!"
If you didn't learn quickly you got a swat on the side of the head or an elbow in the side of your arm. Or, even more embarrassing, was the talking-to you got with your head down by the kneelers in a harsh, snapping whisper, either from mom or an older brother or sister in charge of you in the pew.

Since I rarely got one word of sense out of the Latin mass or Father Carol's sermon, (which might as well have been in Latin), I must have develped my ability to see everyone around me without turning my head. I could see Mrs. LaCount's bright red lipstick and perfect posture. I could see one of the Sweeney kid's bright red hair. I could see the curls on a LaChapelle girl's hair and the hunched-over look of Mr. Calcattera. I could see Dad wasn't on the same page in the book as everyone else and I could see his arm move up as he checked his wristwatch to see what time it was. I saw how small Mom looked compared to even my brothers sitting next to her.

I could watch the sun coming through the stainglass windows and see it move color from one cheek on the faces of someone in the pew,s to a bald spot on some man's head. I would see some people move their jaw like they were chewing gum in church, and the rapid movement of some who were saying the rosary. (I only now realized they weren't listening to a word of the sermon, either)

I could see small bodies lifted right up out of their place and put somewhere else away from a brother or sister they were pinching, punching or playing with. Sometimes I'd see two parents (a few children apart from each other) wink or nod at each other and smile. Or a mother fussing with her son's shirt collar or her daugher's scarf. Or a mother brushing back her hair from her face self-consciously. Insecure about how she look after rushing to get eight or nine children ready for church and barely having time to run a brush throught her hair, let alone worry about how she looked or if she had a run in her stocking.

It humored me, as it does today, when an altar boy overly dressed in layers down to their shoes, would nod off briefly or yawn so wide it would make his eyes close. I would smile to see him look out at the congregation to make sure his parents didn't see him and then get back to his pious look of being an altar boy.
Maybe this is why sitting for hours in a hunting stand at "Old Faithful" in the Northern Michigan woods never seemed tedious. I felt at home not moving my head, not making noise or wiggling. I knew how to foucs on a spot in the distance and see all the things happening around me at once. The chickades above my head, jumping from branch to branch saying their name over and over again. The red squirrel flicking his tail who thought he was a chikadee (but never got the words or the notes right) and his sound was just an annoying screech.

I could see the shapes of the birds higher up in the sky flying over the woods, and the accassional white streak made from the passing jet in the blue sky. The movement of light on the colored leaves left on the trees after the fall wind and rains did their best to bring them all down.

I could see the bright orange of Harry's hunting clothes. His large hand with all its scars and veins resting calmly on the butt of his gun. His boots resting in the grooves he'd carefully fix before sitting down to wait. Making sure no leaves or sticks were anywhere in the dark soil to give him away when he stood up or leaned forward to shoot. The nodd of his head when he'd fall alseep. (but never admit it) The fog that would form around his mouth as his breathed in and out the cool morning air. Or the swarms of tiny nosiums that would occassionally float to our stand for a moment and seem to move on quickly with the wind.

It's not just our eyes that see. It's not just our intuition that knows. We are complex beings with a soul. Feeling and seeing when we don't realize it. It makes us human. Makes us connect with humanity no matter how hard we try to shut out the rest of the world. No matter how hard we drink or eat our way to another world, we are part of it. We are the eyes seeing, even if we don't look.



Author's notes:
Happy Half-birthday, Heidi.

I couldn't find the word for a small bug that collects in swarms and I found the one I thought was "Nocium" and it's "no-see-um", I thought it was pretty funny. You can't really see them so we call them "No see them", or the slang "No-see-um".....language....I can see why Elizabeth is fascinated by it.