[M]any newly sighted people
speak well of the world, and teach us how dull is our
own vision. To one patient, a human hand,
unrecognized, is "something bright and then
holes." Shown a bunch of grapes, a boy calls out
"It is dark, blue and shiny....It isn't smooth, it has
bumps and hollows." A little girl visits a
garden. "She is greatly astonished, and can
scarcely be persuaded to answer, stands speechless in
front of the tree, which she only names by taking hold
of it, and then as "the tree with the lights in it."
*****
When the doctor took her
bandages off and led her into the garden, the girl
who was no longer blind saw "the tree with the
lights in it." It was for this tree I searched
through the peach orchards of summer, in the forests
of fall and down winter and spring for years.
Then one day I was walking along Tinker Creek
thinking of nothing at all and I saw the tree with
the lights in it. I saw the backyard cedar
where the mourning doves roost charged and
transfigured, each cell buzzing with flame. I
stood on the grass with the lights in it, grass that
was wholly fire, utterly focused and utterly
dreamed. It was less like seeing than like
being for the first time seen, knocked breathless by
a powerful glance. The lights of the fire
abated, but I'm still spending the power.
Gradually the lights went out in the cedar, the
colors died, the cells unflamed and
disappeared. I was still ringing. I had
my whole life been a bell, and never knew it until
at that moment I was lifted and struck. I have
since only rarely seen the tree with the lights in
it. The vision comes and goes, mostly goes,
but I live for it, for the moment when the mountains
open and a new light roars in spate through the
crack, and the mountains slam.
--Annie Dillard, Pilgrim
at Tinker Creek (1974).
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