Embracing Life’s Changing Terrain
Christy Doherty
50plus Magazine
Within days of my ophthalmologist retiring, I had an emergency. My eyes just weren’t right; the disturbing visual symptoms were nothing like my migraine auras.
Thanking the new doctor for squeezing me in, I shared with her an essay I’d written recently, telling of how my retired doctor — her former colleague — had offered to perform surgery on a blind deer I was watching over.
My first retinal scan yielded a sheaf of printouts. The doctor said, “Thank God you came in today.” The urgency was clear, and the essay I’d shared with her — “The Blind Deer” — seemed an unsettling twist of fate.
Leaving the office with critical issues threatening my sight, things felt surreal. Everything under the blue autumn sky seemed more vivid, more precious. Dappled sunlight took me back to forest trails, framed between the ears of my grey Arabian. Images flooded my mind: my mother’s smile, dainty lace cap hydrangeas, graceful seashells and a lifetime of other visual memories. I recalled pounding along the surf’s edge at full gallop, sunset filtering through my horse’s wind-tossed mane, breathing in freedom.
As a writer, the things I see in the world around me later spill from my pen – I’m terrified of losing that freedom.
Freedom — my dad defended it through three wars. His flag-draped coffin and huge military honor guard bore testament. Dad even once gave a fish its freedom. Gifted to him by a well-intentioned dock fisherman, as soon as the angler left, dad lowered the fish into the river, massaging until its gills engaged and it swam away. Everything was precious to him.
He was right, it is.
The precious textures of a barn owl’s face, cradling it on the way to the vet. A running Greyhound’s earthbound flight; morning sun on dew-covered spider webs. Most of all, looking into my husband’s eyes and feeling the firm yet gentle warmth of his hand around mine.
Was I overreacting? No, said the emergency phone numbers in my pocket and referral to a surgeon with Mayo Clinic credentials. Things could worsen abruptly. Unlike the dappled forest trails of memory, this was uncharted terrain.
Terrain. The contours of my husband’s face filled my mind, his strong, chiseled features steadying me. The passing decades have changed his eyes little. There are days when I see pain; more recently, concern. Always, I see love.
I hope I’ll be fine, that interventions will happen in time, with great outcomes. But I’d be a fool not to own the issues in play.
Today, I’ll admire the sparkle on African violet petals, the joyful doves splashing in the water pans. I’ll freshen that water tasting of bird feet for the next time the deer drink. I’ll smile over hardy “wild child” linaria plants adored by bees and hummingbirds. I’ll note their reckless self-seeding, even in
the driveway gravel, holding onto their grit for myself.
I’ll treasure a hummingbird feather left on a feeder, its iridescence flashing in the fading light.
Maple leaves drift in the scant breeze. There’s hardly a better example of release than autumn leaves. It’s a timely reminder for me that as much as I want to control outcomes, the future is a horse that won’t be contained. It’s simply the place our present moment gives way to, one increment, one breath, at a time. Some moments are scarier than others, a truth I’m learning as I go.
I wrote this poem last year. . .
The leaves don’t grieve,
They fall with grace…
Released upon the autumn breeze…
And where I once saw crumpled brown…
I now see Nature’s fragile lace…
Leaves large and small
Break free and drift;
Some simply fall, while others dance…
A lesson, as I mark my years,
To find joy when I have the chance…
May we all find joy, and embrace the dance, whatever our journey.