Seeing With My Eyes And My Heart

I had no idea a new pair of glasses could teach me a life lesson. Last week, I decided to get progressive lens — a fancy name for no-line trifocals. My first pair. I kept losing my readers. When you advance to progressives, you don’t take them off and on.

Picking out my frames, I texted pictures to my fashion savvy daughter.


After a bunch of “MOM, NO!!!” texts, I finally chose the pair on the left.


Friday night, I was so excited. My new glasses were ready. I slipped them on in the store. Ta-dah!

Then I tried to walk. My hands got clammy. I thought I might throw up. “Feels like my head’s stuck in a fishbowl,” I said to the saleslady.

“Point your nose toward what you want to see. The more you wear them, the quicker you’ll adjust.”

Adjust? To walking and moving my head? “How long does it take? A few hours?”

“Anywhere from a week to a month. Don’t shift your eyes, honey. Turn your head.”

This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to change to see.

As I baby-stepped to the door, she called out, “Look down when you step off the curb.”

I didn’t trip walking to the car, but at home, I bumped into plenty of things.

The first two days, I considered asking for a refund.

And then on day three, I remembered the saleslady had worn progressive lens. Maybe she knew what she was talking about. I decided to follow her instructions.


By the afternoon, I became Alice in Wonderland. I noticed what kind of birds were at the feeder, tiny drops of rain, and even dirty spots on my  cabinets. Because of my stubborness, I almost missed out.

To experience a new way of living, I had to:

1. Listen to the truth.

2. Trust someone who knew more than I did.

3. Let go of my old ways.

Anyone working on changing? I understand. I hope this helps.





















Life…in Retrospect

I stopped by Mother’s the other day. She was sitting at her desk in her office. “Sometimes I wish I could do it all over again,” she said.


“Motherhood. Remember how it feels to bring a new baby home from the hospital? You put them over your shoulder and pat their little bottoms. Sweetest weight in the world.”

“And kiss their soft heads. People tried to tell me how fast it would go, but I didn’t listen.”

“Me either,” she said. “I just thought, I’m tired of folding diapers, getting supper ready, making formula, and feeding the dog.”

“Wish we could go back for a few days. I’d hurry less. Laugh a lot more.”

“I wouldn’t talk near as much,” Mother said leaning on her typewriter. “If one of you wanted my attention, I’d stop putting the clothes in the washing machine or reading the mail, or even writing, and be quiet and listen.”

I smiled imagining the thought.

“Another thing,” she said. “Making sandwiches. I’d cut them in half and trim off the edges. And I wouldn’t pinch y’all in church.”

I laughed. “I’d forgotten about that.”

She turned from her typewriter to face me.

“And never in a million years would I scream unless the house was on fire,” she said. “I’d make homemade Christmas cookies and let ya’ll decorate them. I wouldn’t care that the kitchen got messy. I wouldn’t make you and Jennifer sleep in tight pink sponge rollers every Saturday night. I’d never lock y’all out of the house and make you drink out of the hose while I was writing. I’d smile every time I looked at you. No more frownie faces.”

“You’re smiling now,” I said.

“You are too.”

“Anytime we talk we’re making a memory. A memory happens when hearts connect.”

“And when someone really listens,” she said.