Sight, Sound and Stillness

Dear Orion,

Tomorrow, they’ll remove the cataract from my left eye. A small, clinical act - and yet, the symbolism doesn’t escape me. I will literally see the world differently afterward.

The world has already changed. I feel the weight in my chest. I worry that my voice is too small from this distance. But still, I crave the quiet. There’s something sacred in this mental calmness I’ve found lately, like the hush of a snow-covered street or the stillness of a dawn tide before it pulls out again.

I know this won’t last forever. The children will grow, stretch their wings, and fly beyond my reach. But for a moment in time, I sit in stillness and allow myself to rest inside the peace. No fixing. No rushing. Just… breathing.

Last night, I stood under the lights of Fenway Park, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of sweat-soaked bodies, the heat rising in waves from the ground. Hozier (also known as Irish Jesus), filled the stadium with his voice, and for a moment, I looked up through the sound and into the Boston sky. There it was: a city I love, lit up like a heartbeat, pulsing in time with the music. My heart came alive in that moment - not because of escape, but because something in that voice made the world feel sacred again.

 Maybe tomorrow I’ll see more clearly.

Maybe not just with my eyes.

 With quiet hope,

— me