The drive to work changes only with the seasons.  The buildings remain the same — quaint houses for much of the stretch; children on the sidewalk; coffee shops, tennis courts, long swathes of vibrant parkway, racks of bikes.

My eyes change though:  From day to day I see things in a different light,  not with the dimness of age but with the veil of emotion.  If I sleep well, the city appeals to me.  On a day when pain grips my legs or my obligations overwhelm me, trash spills from the gutters and exhaust fumes seep through the cracks of the car, grey and gritty.

This morning I rose before the sun and stood in the dark kitchen thinking about the day.  The faces of my clients float around me.  Their anguish haunts me, stark and bold against the dimness of my home.  Fear stamps itself on their cheeks, leaking from their eyes.  I wrap my arms around myself and close my own eyes, tight against their terror.

Years ago, my eyesight began to fade more quickly than most middle-aged folks anticipate.  I remember when I played Helen Keller in a high school production.  To mimic her blindness, I only had to take off my glasses.  To simulate her early wildness, I let my long hair fall across my face and crawled on all fours.  Something about helplessness appeals to me now.  I would not want 20/20 vision.  I can more easily endure the drive through my days with the edges slightly  blurred.  If I want to see something more clearly, I pull it close to my face..  I study each sharply focused facet, blind to the whole, seeing only so much of it as I can bear at one time.

It’s the third day of the thirty-second month of My [Never-Ending] Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.