Clear Vision
When I was seven years old, I remember saying to myself, “I can see forever! I have great vision! I am a superhero!” A week later my eyes were tested for the first time, and it turned out my idea of clear vision and the doctor’s were different. It was a magical day when I got my first pair of glasses and stared in awe at the crisp edges of the world: buildings, signs, cars were suddenly sharp, neon bright, and distinct. What a revelation of sight!
On February 2 (the cross-quarter day of Candlemas) our Spiritual Integrity Coaching community started a cleanse that would last until March 20, the Spring Equinox. For years I had been doing a cleanse over Lent, inspired by my work with don Miguel who loved Easter and the story of Jesus going into the desert for 40 days to face his own demons. The intent of the cleanse was gather together as a community to support each other over a period of dedicated time in clearing something out of our lives. Some people did opinion fasts (not sharing their opinions), some did physical cleansing. One of our crew came up with a great name for our 48-day cleanse: Lense, a combination of the words Lent and Cleanse, which beautifully fit with our intent to use this period to create the spaciousness to see (lens) more clearly.
My personal intent for the Lense was clear vision, with a very physical component. The day before Candlemas I laid on a table covered by a blanket, doing my best to keep my eyes focused on a blurry red light while a laser sliced a thin layer of tissue off my eye. I had thought about laser eye surgery in the past to correct my eyesight, but always thought I would not qualify, since I had not only severe near-sightedness but also astigmatism in both eyes. Raven encouraged me to find out the reality, and now he stood outside the operating room watching the procedure on a television screen that magnified my eye to gigantic, see-it-all-in-vivid-detail, size.
First, the eye is held immobile by a circular vacuum clamp. That was the most uncomfortable part of the procedure; eyelids stretched wide open with strong pressure on the eyeball itself. The doctor gently talked me through each stage of the process as I practiced relaxing my body, breathing, and telling myself that I was not being randomly tortured in a foreign county by people trying to get information out of me. I paid good money for this discomfort!
The procedure itself is actually very simple thanks to the technical marvel of computers and lasers. A paper-thin conrneal flap is sliced by knife or laser and then carefully peeled back. A second laser, (a tissue-ablating excimer laser according to the pamplet) which has been programmed in advance to the specific contours of each eye, reshapes the eye to correct the shape of the eye so light refracts properly.
The story of blurr: Myopia, or nearsightedness results when the eyeball is too long or the cornea is curved too steeply so light focuses in front of the retina. Hyperopia, or farsightedness results when the eyeball is too short or the corneal curvature is too flat, causing light to focus behind the retina. Astigmatism is when the eyeball is oblong so the light cannot focus properly anywhere. 20/20 vision is when the eyeball is shaped so light coming into the eye focuses exactly at the retina and voila, you can see.
Eye drop, eye drop, eye drop, blink blink blink. My eye is stabilized again and the second laser is put in place. It beeps each time it ablates. (I'll have to remember to look up the word "ablate"). The recarving takes seconds and is easy, except for the point when everything went white and my mind started yelling that I was going to be blind. Blind! And then it was over. When the corneal flap was put back into place (it naturally sticks right into place without stitches) the blurry red light I have been faithfully staring at suddenly comes into vivid focus. I stare in amazement; what had been a soft sea of red now reveals its true nature as a series of tiny red circles, bright pinpoints of light shining at me.
When the staff stands me up and asks me to read the time from the clock on the wall my brain cannot process to see clearly and figure out what the big and little hand says. But I can see that there is a big and little hand, and both are in FOCUS! I am giddy when I leave the room, eyes protected behind my Charles Ray sunglasses. I am told to go right home and take a nap, keep my eyes closed.
On February 2 (the cross-quarter day of Candlemas) our Spiritual Integrity Coaching community started a cleanse that would last until March 20, the Spring Equinox. For years I had been doing a cleanse over Lent, inspired by my work with don Miguel who loved Easter and the story of Jesus going into the desert for 40 days to face his own demons. The intent of the cleanse was gather together as a community to support each other over a period of dedicated time in clearing something out of our lives. Some people did opinion fasts (not sharing their opinions), some did physical cleansing. One of our crew came up with a great name for our 48-day cleanse: Lense, a combination of the words Lent and Cleanse, which beautifully fit with our intent to use this period to create the spaciousness to see (lens) more clearly.
My personal intent for the Lense was clear vision, with a very physical component. The day before Candlemas I laid on a table covered by a blanket, doing my best to keep my eyes focused on a blurry red light while a laser sliced a thin layer of tissue off my eye. I had thought about laser eye surgery in the past to correct my eyesight, but always thought I would not qualify, since I had not only severe near-sightedness but also astigmatism in both eyes. Raven encouraged me to find out the reality, and now he stood outside the operating room watching the procedure on a television screen that magnified my eye to gigantic, see-it-all-in-vivid-detail, size.
First, the eye is held immobile by a circular vacuum clamp. That was the most uncomfortable part of the procedure; eyelids stretched wide open with strong pressure on the eyeball itself. The doctor gently talked me through each stage of the process as I practiced relaxing my body, breathing, and telling myself that I was not being randomly tortured in a foreign county by people trying to get information out of me. I paid good money for this discomfort!
The procedure itself is actually very simple thanks to the technical marvel of computers and lasers. A paper-thin conrneal flap is sliced by knife or laser and then carefully peeled back. A second laser, (a tissue-ablating excimer laser according to the pamplet) which has been programmed in advance to the specific contours of each eye, reshapes the eye to correct the shape of the eye so light refracts properly.
The story of blurr: Myopia, or nearsightedness results when the eyeball is too long or the cornea is curved too steeply so light focuses in front of the retina. Hyperopia, or farsightedness results when the eyeball is too short or the corneal curvature is too flat, causing light to focus behind the retina. Astigmatism is when the eyeball is oblong so the light cannot focus properly anywhere. 20/20 vision is when the eyeball is shaped so light coming into the eye focuses exactly at the retina and voila, you can see.
Eye drop, eye drop, eye drop, blink blink blink. My eye is stabilized again and the second laser is put in place. It beeps each time it ablates. (I'll have to remember to look up the word "ablate"). The recarving takes seconds and is easy, except for the point when everything went white and my mind started yelling that I was going to be blind. Blind! And then it was over. When the corneal flap was put back into place (it naturally sticks right into place without stitches) the blurry red light I have been faithfully staring at suddenly comes into vivid focus. I stare in amazement; what had been a soft sea of red now reveals its true nature as a series of tiny red circles, bright pinpoints of light shining at me.
When the staff stands me up and asks me to read the time from the clock on the wall my brain cannot process to see clearly and figure out what the big and little hand says. But I can see that there is a big and little hand, and both are in FOCUS! I am giddy when I leave the room, eyes protected behind my Charles Ray sunglasses. I am told to go right home and take a nap, keep my eyes closed.
Here was a serious technical error on my part. I was so excited I stared at everything out the window. I wanted food. I wanted to dance. We stopped and Raven ran to get me food. I ate, marveling at the sharpness and sudden turn around of my vision. So easy! I can see, I can see!
Then the pain started to hit. If I had listened to my doctor's advice I would have laid myself out in the back seat with something over my head and gone to sleep on the hour drive home. The directive: go home and take a nap did not take into account that we lived an hour away. I could not get away from the light, which burned like acid. I've never experienced light as pure pain, and it was incredible. I now have a tiny inkling of what it might be like to be in the vicinity of a nuclear bomb and the wrenching brightness of annilation. And my sincerest compassion to anyone who has had severe migranes. Even with Raven's leather coat over my head and my black black sunglasses and my eyes shut I whimpered. My body freaked out completely, so I was shaking and in terror by the time we arrived at home. Raven pulled our most comfortable chair into the darkest room of our house, sealed off the window, gave me a pain pill, and held my hand until I finally fell asleep.
Three hours later I woke up to find the pain was gone and my eyes were happy again. The only evidence of the surgery was a curved red line around one iris where the suction broke blood vessels, and the fact that I could see myself in the mirror with my own eyes.
My eyes took their sweet time in the healing process. Many people have the surgery and have perfect vision the next day. I found that for weeks I could see everything beautifully as long as it was within four feet of me. Everything beyond this was blurry. My intent had been clear vision, both for my outer and my inner sight, so what did it mean that I could no longer see the stars except as faint ghosts and I couldn't register what a sign said when I was driving until I was already past it? I mourned that I could no longer see the individual leaves in the oak trees outside my house. I panicked when driving to a new place because I would keep getting lost. Before the surgery there was a familiar blur when I took my glasses or contacts out; this new (even though it was improved) fuzziness was unfamiliar and deeply unsettling.
I was truly amazed to experience how attached I was to my eyesight. Each time my eyes were checked I was told be patient, they will heal. Some people just take a long time and they had to cut a lot of my eye to bring it to the proper shape. The first week I was not patient, but frustrated and anxious for spending thousands of dollars to make my eyesight worse. My old glasses no longer worked, so I existed in a world that was clear just in front of me and consistently blurry beyond that. Some days I trusted, some days I felt hysterical. And I kept coming back to: what is the lesson. I had gone to the surgery with a strong intent for clear vision. What was the gift here? And of course it was simple: one morning I recognized, oh, I do not need to see into the future. My work is to be right here, in this present moment.
Then the pain started to hit. If I had listened to my doctor's advice I would have laid myself out in the back seat with something over my head and gone to sleep on the hour drive home. The directive: go home and take a nap did not take into account that we lived an hour away. I could not get away from the light, which burned like acid. I've never experienced light as pure pain, and it was incredible. I now have a tiny inkling of what it might be like to be in the vicinity of a nuclear bomb and the wrenching brightness of annilation. And my sincerest compassion to anyone who has had severe migranes. Even with Raven's leather coat over my head and my black black sunglasses and my eyes shut I whimpered. My body freaked out completely, so I was shaking and in terror by the time we arrived at home. Raven pulled our most comfortable chair into the darkest room of our house, sealed off the window, gave me a pain pill, and held my hand until I finally fell asleep.
Three hours later I woke up to find the pain was gone and my eyes were happy again. The only evidence of the surgery was a curved red line around one iris where the suction broke blood vessels, and the fact that I could see myself in the mirror with my own eyes.
My eyes took their sweet time in the healing process. Many people have the surgery and have perfect vision the next day. I found that for weeks I could see everything beautifully as long as it was within four feet of me. Everything beyond this was blurry. My intent had been clear vision, both for my outer and my inner sight, so what did it mean that I could no longer see the stars except as faint ghosts and I couldn't register what a sign said when I was driving until I was already past it? I mourned that I could no longer see the individual leaves in the oak trees outside my house. I panicked when driving to a new place because I would keep getting lost. Before the surgery there was a familiar blur when I took my glasses or contacts out; this new (even though it was improved) fuzziness was unfamiliar and deeply unsettling.
I was truly amazed to experience how attached I was to my eyesight. Each time my eyes were checked I was told be patient, they will heal. Some people just take a long time and they had to cut a lot of my eye to bring it to the proper shape. The first week I was not patient, but frustrated and anxious for spending thousands of dollars to make my eyesight worse. My old glasses no longer worked, so I existed in a world that was clear just in front of me and consistently blurry beyond that. Some days I trusted, some days I felt hysterical. And I kept coming back to: what is the lesson. I had gone to the surgery with a strong intent for clear vision. What was the gift here? And of course it was simple: one morning I recognized, oh, I do not need to see into the future. My work is to be right here, in this present moment.
Putting eye drops in my eyes every 1/2 hour for the first two months after the surgery became a spiritual awareness practice. I set a little alarm and every half hour I consciously took a breath, restated my intent of clear vision, and put in my drops. When I taught I invited the entire room to stop each half hour and come into awareness with me, hold their own intent, as I squeezed artificial tears to nourish my eyes.
Last month the road department came through our little neighbor hood and put up new signs. One of them reads: Limited Sight Distance. I laughed, knowing the sign was just for me. Stop looking beyond this moment, Heather Ash. Don't try to peer beyond the next hill!
Last month the road department came through our little neighbor hood and put up new signs. One of them reads: Limited Sight Distance. I laughed, knowing the sign was just for me. Stop looking beyond this moment, Heather Ash. Don't try to peer beyond the next hill!
Today my eyes fluctuate, sometimes coming perfectly into to 20/20 vision, while other days I still struggle to read signs in the distance and the trees remain gauzy Monet images. The 20/20 days are truly amazing. Suddenly I can see the piercing clarity and sharpness of everything around me. Colors brighten, words pop. My heart sings at the beauty. Days like today, when the hills outside the window blur into the fuzzy clouded blue sky, are still miracles. I am seeing this computer screen and my mocha latte frappachino with whipped cream on the table with my own eyes. Each day is a surprise. I've learned clear vision is not a fixed state we reach where all becomes clear, but a presence of being moment to moment with what is.
posted by Heather Ash Amara | 5:00 PM
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