Eyeful

The eye has it. MinivanNinja/Flickr/CC BY-ND 2.0

Things you never want people to say to you: "What's that thing on your eye?!"

When my cousin first blurted this out to me earlier this summer, I recognized what had been staring me literally in the face for two weeks already—a hard bump on my eyelid that had grown into a chalazion. No, I did not put together that the eye irritation I'd been experiencing had led to this blocked oil gland. No, I did not notice it forming on my right eyelid, despite looking at myself in a mirror at least twice a day. No, I did not even know the word "chalazion" until I engaged in frantic internet searching.

I did what Dr. Google instructed me to do; I applied warm compresses as often as I could and tried not to panic as the days ticked by with little change. Then, just when I was reaching the two-month mark with this optical oddity, convinced I was going to require shots or surgery or a sequined eye patch, it began to shrink. Now, a couple weeks later, my eye is almost back to normal, and I am examining why the (truly non-threatening) experience shook me so.

The chalazion distorted my vision in three ways:

1. It pressed on my eyeball directly. The larger the bump grew, the more it pushed down, and the blurrier my sight became.

2. It pierced my lifelong vanity about my eyes. Besides my hair, my eyes are my favorite feature with their warm droop, side crinkles, and long, dark lashes. But here this angry red lump was blighting what I think most beautiful about myself, and along with it my self-esteem.

3. It popped my illusion about having much control over anything. No matter how many compresses I applied each day, the chalazion just had to pass on its own, which was a lesson I did not feel like learning through my precious eyesight.

2024 so far has been a year of grief and grieving, some moments subtle, others overt, all of it accumulating with the weight of unshed tears, and while a chalazion has nothing to do with tear ducts, the emotional clogging felt similar. Every time I prepared the warm compress, every time I laid the damp washcloth on my face, I would pray: Just once this year, dear Lord, let one thing be easy. Let one thing be solved.

Was it coincidence that the heat wave broke, that long-awaited news arrived, that my vacation time started, the same week that the chalazion finally began to shrink? Probably. But I'm choosing to view it as an unusual, unsightly (in all senses) call to prayer—contemplative spirituality, ophthalmological edition—in which quiet stillness wormed its way into my hectic life, invited me to sit awhile, and let what needed to move, move, on its own time.

 

Prayer #401: Peripheral Vision

Help me notice what I have ignored.

Help me confront what I have avoided.

Help me expand what I have compressed.

Help me release what I have blocked.

Help me clarify, liquefy, well up, spill over,

    so I course like a cataract into a pool of wisdom so deep

    I never reach the bottom.

Amen.