Here, There and Everywhere

Posts tagged ‘eyes’

I Am the Lover’s Eyes

From The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran. Translated by Anthony Rizcallah Ferris and edited by Martin L. Wolf (1951).

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Song of Love by Kahlil Gibran.

I am the lover’s eyes, and the spirit’s
Wine, and the heart’s nourishment.
I am a rose. My heart opens at dawn and
The virgin kisses me and places me
Upon her breast.

I am the house of true fortune, and the
Origin of pleasure, and the beginning
Of peace and tranquility. I am the gentle
Smile upon the lips of beauty. When youth
Overtakes me he forgets his toil, and his
Whole life becomes reality of sweet dreams.

I am the poet’s elation,
And the artist’s revelation,
And the musician’s inspiration.

I am a sacred shrine in the heart of a
Child, adored by a merciful mother.

I appear to a heart’s cry; I shun a demand;
My fullness pursues the heart’s desire;
It shuns the empty claim of the voice.

I appeared to Adam through Eve
And exile was his lost;
Yet I revealed myself to Solomon, and
He drew wisdom from my presence.

I smiled at Helena and she destroyed Tarwada;
Yet I crowned Cleopatra and peace dominated
The Valley of the Nile.

I am like the ages – building today
And destroying tomorrow;
I am like a god, who creates and ruins;
I am sweeter than a violet’s sigh;
I am more violent than a raging tempest.

Gifts alone do not entice me;
Parting does not discourage me;
Poverty does not chase me;
Jealousy does not prove my awareness;
Madness does not evidence my presence.

Oh seekers, I am Truth, beseeching Truth;
And your Truth in seeking and receiving
And protecting me shall determine my
Behaviour.

Looking Good

imagesA beautiful excerpt from Zen Master Tova Tarantino Toshiba: The Illustrious and Delusional Abbess of Satire.

Mistress Tova loved to eat. She ate whatever was provided, unless it was meat or fish, as she chose to not partake of anything that had eyes or a mother.

One evening, during the rainy season, when travel was the most enjoyable, a family offered Mistress Tova and her drenched wandering sisters some stale moldy bread. The Abbott’s students refused to touch the food, afraid it would make them sick, but their mistress ate heartily.

“That is the most delicious meal I’ve had in weeks,” she told the family, who beamed with pleasure at having their meager offering accepted by the great mistress.

As soon as the family left, Mistress Tova went behind a tree and threw up the entire meal. When she returned and the sisters asked her why she’d eaten the putrid bread, she said, “Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how you feel, as long as you look good.”

More good looking stories at: Zen Master Tova Tarantino Toshiba: The Illustrious and Delusional Abbess of Satire.

Knocked Senseless

An inspiring & painful tale from Zen Master Tova Tarantino Toshiba: The Illustrious and Delusional Abbess of Satire.

“There is only the direct path,” Zen Master Toshiba exhorted to the lay community that had gathered for her Thursday talk. “You can go around in circles and try many paths, but the one which leads to the source is straight and narrow. It isn’t easy. It involves hardship, determination, and will power.” Many heads nodded in agreement. “We must not take this lightly,” The Master said sternly. “With the direct path, we can focus on what arises.” She paused, sighed, and then finished the session with the admonition, “Like a horse being led to water, we must not look to the left or the right, but keep our eyes on the road, trail or meadow . . . whatever it is the horse is walking on, and keep moving. Sitting still is a waste of time.”

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At the next week’s meeting, one of the men who had attended previously came in late and tripped over several people as he made his way to the front of the line. There he stood in front of The Master. His face was a mass of bruises and it looked as if his nose and arm had been broken. He gingerly prostrated, bowed, and stood again, with the help of his neighbor.

“Why are you standing before me?” Master Toshiba inquired.

“You said sitting was a waste of time Master.”

“And what has happened to your body?”

“I have taken your words to heart and made every attempt to go straight and not detour from my destination, as you instructed. It has been a very hard road.”

“You have taken my words to heart and been thus rewarded. Has it knocked any sense into you yet?”

“It has knocked me senseless several times, but I don’t think I have any greater understanding.”

“Perhaps not, but you have provided a wonderful example for others.”

“I have?”

“Yes, please sit, if you can,” Master Toshiba advised. The man did so painfully.

“This gentleman has shown us all the power of faith and determination. He tried my words on for size and found that they are not to be taken literally, but as metaphors, stories, parables, fairy tales, and the gospel truth. Of course truth is subjective and your experience of what it is may be different than mine, but THE truth is formed upon solid rock and is true in all circumstances, situations, and times. And that’s the truth.”

More unbelievable words of enlightenment: Zen Master Tova Tarantino Toshiba: The Illustrious and Delusional Abbess of Satire.

So Their Eyes May See

What better way to end this year than by giving a gift that is a life changer for someone in need?

A gift to Seva today is more than a year-end donation… it is a Gift of Hope for a better tomorrow.

Twelve year old Reshmi lives in Bangladesh with her mother and father. About a year and a half ago, Reshmi began to lose her vision in both eyes. As her vision got worse she dropped out of school. Reshmi became depressed as she grew completely dependent on others. She even stopped wanting to play with her friends.

Reshmi_and_mother_3

Reshmi’s parents became increasingly worried about their daughter’s ability to lead a normal life. As Reshmi lost her eyesight, she needed someone to care for her throughout the day.

In October, Reshmi’s mother brought her to a Seva eye camp made possible by donors who generously responded to Seva’s World Sight Day campaign, and by matching funds from Focusing Philanthropy.

Reshmi was examined and Seva’s local team of expert surgeons restored her vision in both eyes – removing the pediatric cataracts which had been causing her blindness.

Reshmi (pictured here with her mother the day after her surgery) tells Seva how very excited she is to return to school. Her mother, once full of worry, is now filled with happiness knowing that Reshmi will return to her studies and be able to succeed in life! Not only will Reshmi’s life return to normal now, but so will the lives of her entire family.

This is just one of so many incredible stories. This year, 85,000 cataract and sight saving surgeries were performed by Seva. Over 1,000,000 people received eye care services. All of this was made possible by generous supporters like you.

Your support today will change a life forever.

We thank you for your year-end support and wish you and yours a very peaceful and joyous New Year!

Jack Blanks
Executive Director
Seva Foundation

The Eyes of the World

From SEVA Foundation

A Solution in Sight

With over 34 years of experience focusing on the prevention of blindness, Seva builds sustainable eye care programs in places where millions of people suffer in darkness from cataract and other avoidable eye conditions. A staggering 80% of blindness is preventable, and Seva’s Center for Innovation in Eye Care has a solution. Through support from donors like you, we have created the Global Sight Network – and the plan is working!

Seva’s Global Sight Network includes many international, award winning, eye care institutions that serve as hubs for training and mentoring.

Our Network improves the performance of eye hospitals in regions where the need is greatest – places like Bangladesh, Ethiopia, and Tibet.

The goal is to build the capacity of 100 eye hospitals and to produce one million additional sight-restoring cataract surgeries on a sustainable basis.

This multinational project is the most comprehensive of its kind to address preventable blindness in the world, and the Global Sight Network is on its way toward the goal!

As of today, the Network is assisting over 40 hospitals in 11 countries. United in their goal, Network hospitals are now working as a team to increase outreach programs, get more eye care professionals trained, and to accomplish an additional one million cataract surgeries annually.

One of the first needs identified by the Network was that many hospitals lacked the key staff required to build high-quality, high-volume, cataract surgery programs.

The missing ingredient: ophthalmic assistants.

Today, young people around the world are being trained by Seva’s mentor institutions as ophthalmic assistants, many of them are young women in rural areas where job prospects were few. By receiving training, these young people are able to become valuable members in their communities are vital to the success of Seva’s campaign to restore eyesight to the millions who suffer from preventable blindness.

The unique efforts of Seva’s Global Sight Network are attracting the attention of Corporate donors such as Google and TOMS. Institutions like the Harvard Business School and the International Agency for the Prevention of Blindness (IAPB), have joined with our donors in supporting this important work.

Recently, the Clinton Global Initiative featured Seva’s Global Sight Network as an example of a powerful strategy to overcome one of the world’s greatest injustices – preventable blindness.

With each new partner and supporter, Seva’s Global Sight Network comes closer to reaching our goal of one million additional sight restoring surgeries.

Help Seva bring eye care services to many of the world’s most underserved regions with your donation to Seva’s Sight Program today >

Read more articles and see additional photos at SEVA.

Moving Up – Part 2

Saint Catherine’s Baby – Stories (Excerpt)

Moving Up – Part 2 (Conclusion)

There I was with my stuffed dog and my mother’s eyes. The neighbor’s door slammed and the TV in the apartment below squawked like a rap song on downers. The water in the pot I’d put on the stove was boiling, the shrieking whistle increasing in velocity. I looked in those eyes, saw my reflection and wondered out loud, “Why did you leave? Where did you go?”

I went to the stove, turned off the kettle and poured what little water was left over my oolong tea. I turned up the volume on the radio, which I must have left on went to work. The announcer said the guy playing the violin had once played for change on the streets of Paris and now graced the stages of concert halls around the world.

I returned to the recliner, put the dog in my lap and hugged its neck. I closed my eyes and drifted off, as my reassuring nightmare gracefully returned.

The snake-eyed woman oozed out of the festering sore, her hands and bony fingers reaching for my throat. She whispers, “Die my love. Die a slow death. There is nothing but pain and sadness.” Her cold fingertips tighten on my Adam’s apple, as I flail with clenched fists to beat my way free, my knuckles smashing into her skeletal face without any impact. Her face changes into a tornado, sucking me in and spitting me out between her thighs. My heart muscle has been shredded into little pieces and is being flushed down the sewer.

My hand slid off the armrest and hit the floor. I found myself sitting in a chair, holding a stuffed dog with marble eyes. The phone was ringing again. I answered.

“What? Oh, hi Annie.”

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Where were you? I called earlier.”

“I must have been in the shower.” I lied.

“How’s your new job?” she asked, disdain seeping through her cheerful “everything is always great” voice.

“OK, I guess. I found the coolest dog.”

“A dog?!” her voice raised an octave. “I thought animals weren’t allowed . . .”

“No, they aren’t allowed here. Not a dog dog . . . it’s a stuffed dog. It’s in great shape. I can’t believe somebody threw it away. And it’s big. I mean really big! If I stand on end it almost reaches my head. And the coolest part is its eyes. They don’t look normal. They’re all glassy, deep black and vacant like. They remind me of . . . well . . . they’re very cool. You’ve got to see it.”

“I’ve got Springer,” she replied, “a real dog. Why on earth would I care about a fake one from the dump?”

“Well, no. I guess you wouldn’t.”

“You could have a real dog,” she pleaded, “if you weren’t so stubborn and moved out here.”

“Well . . . I’ll just have to enjoy my ‘pretend’ dog by my old stubborn self.”

“Don’t go all sad and sorry for yourself on me. You know what I mean.’

“Yeah, I know. Grow up, right?”

“You said it, not me,” she laughed.

She always wanted me to be someone or somewhere different, but she kept calling and seeing me anyway. If I could mint how many times she’d said, “Grow up.” I’d be a billionaire. I have grown up! I like my life just fine. It’s safe, secure and pathetically terminal . . . except for my nightmares. They may leave me sweating in terror, but they’re consistent, predictable and more painfully present then anybody I’ve known dead or alive. She keeps hoping I’ll change. She’s like that, full of faith and seeing the good in people. Some folks can’t help it.

“Why don’t you come stay with me this weekend? We could take Springer to the lake, go fishing and camp out at Crescent Cove.”

“Sure, but I’ve got to work Saturday morning. I’ll drive out in the afternoon. Maybe we could get in a little hook and sinker Sunday morning.”

“I guess that will have to do. See you then.”

“Later,” I said and hung up.

The truth be known, I could only handle being with Annie for a day, two max. Something about her always made me feel inadequate, like I was lacking some prime ingredient for her stew.

I looked at the chair and saw the dog had fallen on the floor. I picked it up, brushed it off and found myself staring at those eyes again. They held me like a voodoo curse. I shook myself free and placed it by the wall, under the window with the dirty blinds I never open.

***

It’s been a year since I started working at the dump. Annie finally got smart and left me alone. I heard she’s hooked up with some organic strawberry farmer who loves the country and has lots of “real” dogs. I’m still living in the same immaculately disastrous apartment, enjoying a Sunday to myself and reading the paper. The stuffed dog I found last year is still lying under the window, sagging a little more in the midriff, obediently collecting dust. I pick it up now and then, whenever I need a good shot of collected misery.

I put down my cup of cold coffee and am drawn to an interesting add.

WANTED. NIGHT DRIVERS. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. WILL TRAIN. REFERENCES REQUIRED. CALL SEASON’S MORTUARY. 639-4518.

“Well now,” I say out loud, “talk about a dream job. I think I’ll call them first thing in the morning.”

THE END

Part 1

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A Good Book – Part 2

Excerpt from short story collection Saint Catherine’s Baby.

A GOOD BOOK – PART 2 (Conclusion)

As they drove home Ruthie went on and on about Alice’s novel, almost repeating her every word. Sy paid particularly close attention to his driving until Ruthie stopped her monologue long enough to ask, “What did you think? Did you like it?”

Sy cleared his throat and carefully replied, “She sure has a way with words.”

“But did you like it?” Ruthie reiterated. “Did her words touch you?”

“Oh, it touched me alright,” he said to himself, recalling an argument that he and Alice had once had that sounded remarkably close to her characters. “It was good,” he replied. “A little unrealistic, but good.”

“Unrealistic?” Ruthie questioned, sounding more surprised than she’d intended. “How so?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, wishing he’d left well enough alone. “Do you think men are that uncaring and unconscious?”

“Yes, most.” She rubbed his shoulder gently. “But not all.”

They gazed into the fog that had descended on the blacktop.

“Have I ever treated you like that?” He asked, almost imperceptibly.

“Like the guys in her story?”

Sy nodded, ever so slightly.

Ruthie looked out the side window at the fence posts appearing and disappearing in the thick soup along the edge of the highway. She didn’t reply until they rolled into their driveway and Sy turned off the key.

“Actually,” she said softly. “Yes. You have.”

Sy felt a chill up his spine as he got out and opened the door for Ruthie. “Not me,” he told himself. “That was the old Sy.”

They walked to the house. He held open the screen as she unlocked the front door and entered. Sy took their coats and hung them on the antique maple coat rack while Ruthie turned up the thermostat. “I’ll make us some tea,” she said and went into the kitchen.

Sy followed, sat down at the kitchen table he’d hand made from pine wood not long after they’d married and watched her move in her familiar surroundings. How many times had he’d seen her at that old gas stove, cooking something up for him or the kids; a thousand, ten thousand?

As she placed their large mugs of decaffeinated Earl Gray on the table, sat down and leaned back on the fading daisy print wallpaper, he asked, “When?”

“When what?” she smiled.

“When have I acted like the men in that woman’s book?”

“Only about every day for the last thirty-four years,” she said.

“Are you serious?” he gasped.

“No,” she said. You’re not as blatant or consistent, but you have your moments.”

She sipped her tea and watched him through the steam.

“For example?” he queried.

Ruthie looked at his lined face and sunken blue eyes, trying to surmise how much and how willing he was to hear. Disregarding her past experiences and the hundreds of times she’d brought the issue to his attention, she decided to grab her red cape of hope and enter the bullring.

“Remember last Friday, after I’d been tutoring English to that cranky old German woman half the day and then worked at the church office all afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Remember that night?”

“What about it?” he asked, trying to gauge the forthcoming charge.

“Remember when we went to bed and I almost fell asleep before my head hit the pillow?”

“So?” He didn’t see any connection.

“Remember how you snuggled up behind me and were all hot and horny and I said, ‘Not tonight, just hold me?’”

Sy put down his cup, which made a louder thud on the table than he’d expected. “Yes and I totally understood and said so, remember?” His mouth was taut and his breath shallow.

Ruthie smiled. “Yes, you said as much, but I could feel otherwise.”

“How could you feel anything?!” he declared; his shoulders erect. “I went to the living room and read.”

Ruthie went to the stove and returned with more hot water. She filled his cup, then her own and sat back down. “It didn’t feel like you understood the next morning when you barely touched me and only replied in monosyllables. It felt like you had closed down shop and checked out.”

“What’s wrong with wanting a little love from the person who says she always loves me?” Sy declared, his face curling like sour milk.

“But I DO love you.” Ruthie leaned forward and placed her hand on Sy’s callused knuckles. “Why do I have to prove it with sex?”

“You don’t have to prove anything!” Sy exclaimed, sliding his hand away and tightly grasping his cup. “I know you love me, but what’s wrong with wanting to share a little sugar to show it?”

Ruthie sat back and stared at her now empty palm. “Nothing, if it’s at a time when I have the energy and my body is willing and able.”

“Well,” he snarled. “There you go.”

“Did you hear me?” She looked intently at the spot on his forehead where his wrinkles assembled to worry.

“Loud and clear.” Sy went to the sink without looking back. He rinsed out his cup, put it in the dishwasher and turned around. “I’ve heard it a thousand times. You love me, but you don’t want to make love with me.”

“Stop it!” Ruthie stood abruptly. “Just stop it!” She took two rapid steps, faced Sy eye to eye and said, “Are you implying that we never have sex, that I never kiss you, give you pleasure or want you inside of me!?”

Sy tried to move, but Ruthie put her arms on either side of his and pressed herself firmly against his pelvis. “No, you aren’t saying that, because you know that would be a lie.”

“But . . .”

“But, it’s never enough, is it?”

Sy hesitated. “Well . . .”

Ruthie shook her head side to side, her cape of hope torn to shreds. Her eyes watered. She tried to turn away from her predictable hard-headed husband, but Sy firmly and gently, grabbed her wrist and stopped her.

“Don’t you see,” Ruthie cried, “how that makes me feel? No matter what I do, it’s not enough. I am never enough.” She let herself be pulled closer. “Why can’t you just love me as I am?”

Sy took her arms and put them over his shoulders then encircled her waist with his own. “I do,” he said.

“It doesn’t feel like that when I don’t perform on demand or the way you want.”

“I’m sorry,” Sy said softly. He wiped the tears from under her eyes.

“I love you more than anyone I’ve ever known,” Ruthie cried, “but feeling forced to have sex, to not alienate you, isn’t love, it’s fear, just like Hooks says. That kind of love feels coerced, manipulated; manufactured to fit some imaginary image of how you think I’m supposed to be.”

Sy felt a lump rising in his throat, as his hold on Ruthie tightened. Her words seeped through his weathered walls. Something cracked open.

“Why now?” he wondered. “After all these years. Was it something Ruthie said or how she said it? Was it Alice Hawkins or Hooks, whatever she went by these days?” Whatever it was, his comfortable delusion of being different from other men was crumbling under the weight of a searing reality.

Ruthie felt the shift. She could feel his skin of fear peeling away. She could see him turning, painfully turning away from conditioning, expectation and judgment. She had never felt so completely and openly accepted by this man. His love was palpable. He saw her. He really saw her.

“I’ve always loved you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he cried. “I’ve kept you away for so long.”

She wiped his face and her own, then looked at her wet hands. “We should boil these tears instead of water for tea,” she grinned.

Sy felt like an anvil had been lifted from his chest. He could breathe freely. He sighed deeply. Each breath released another encrusted layer of tension, doubt and the fear of rejection.

***

When they went to bed that night they looked like they were teenagers who had just fallen in love for the first time. Their eyes were full of anticipation and unlike most teens, knew who they were and where they had been. Their lovemaking was slow, passionate, peaceful and fulfilling. Their history held them and freed them.

After turning out the light, Sy snuggled up to Ruthie’s behind and put his arm around her soft belly.

“You know that Ms. Hooks?”

“Yeah,” Ruthie said, on the verge of dozing off.

“I knew her back in college.”

“Really,” she sleepily replied.

“I mean I really knew her, like intimately.”

Ruthie raised Sy’s arm off her belly and turned to face him.

“Really.”

“Really,” he said, his hot breath caressing her cheek.

“Tell me,” she said, her eyes wide open in the dark. “Tell me all about it.”

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