|Photo Credit: Morgue File by Kevil Roseel|
From where I am–a flesh tree growing out of my own feet–I can see mountains, sky, earth and water. I can see a version of you, but I can't see myself. I catch a glimpse of it in the mirror, backwards and flattened, made strange by the light of different rooms. I see one moment in a photograph. Physicality–a portrait. It's aiming at something. It's not really showing me.
I hear my voice through my own ears, like water burbling through the pipes of a house. Recorded, my voice is not my own. Too low, too scratchy. I don't sound like that. I think I sound like my intention, not like my execution.
But I occur in the world, an event sudden and constant for those in my life. I am always occurring. Confused by my flattened image and distorted voice, I do not know how I occur. The wounded look in the eyes of a son tells me that again I have bruised his feelings. With attention, I can see that I have occurred as unkind rather than frank. I want to protect my intentions, defend them. You are so sensitive. I am just trying to help. I want to champion the world I can see through my viewfinder–the minute box through which I squint and guess at what picture might result when I click a button.
You teach me that the truth of me has nothing to do with this box-view or this rushing water through the pipes. I am happening. The me that matters happens. Water surges forth from sprinkler heads and either drenches passersby or nourishes a bed of flowers. When the button of my camera is pressed, the image that results will forever be pressed into time–a memory of love or anger or mutual understanding.
I am hidden from myself. I can see flowers. I can see cloudscapes. I can see loved ones. I cannot see myself. Not without you.