“Now what?”

This morning, swimming, I was thinking about my eyes. Nearly a month ago, I had to have an emergency laser procedure because my ophthalmologist discovered a new hole in my right retina. Next week I have a follow-up appointment to make sure there are no other problems. I never used to think much about eyes. I had two, mostly pretty good ones. Then I fell on ice and my retinas in both eyes started to detach and there began an adventure I never expected. I learned things and I consider myself lucky that I still have vision. When I was swimming, the sun was just beginning to come over Mount Hallowell and every now and then a spangle of light shimmered across the water. It was early enough for cutthroat to rise to insects on the surface. Early enough for the blue-grey of kingfishers.

In another month, I hope to do a big batch of indigo dyeing. I have linen prepared and some cotton to tie and clamp and wax. I did this work before I injured my eyes but after the retinal damage, diagnosed with really fancy equipment and some visual experiences I will never forget, I see the process differently. The swirls of blue and white are effects I have been both within my eyes and on the textiles themselves. Which came first? As I wrap and tie the lengths of cloth, I am in a chair in a room in the Royal Alexandra’s Eye Institute, having been driven there by my son and husband, through snow swirling around the car. In the chair I saw the most extraordinary skies within my eyes as the young ophthalmologist shone lights. I was told this was blue field entoptic phenomenon. It was a colour I’ve sought for years in textile work and there it was, already within my vision, though apparently seeing it was not a good thing but rather an indication of retinal damage, of disturbance.

This morning I saw the sky through water drops cradled in my eyes and it was so beautiful I wanted to weep. Maybe I did. Lake water, tears, the sky above, or within: I am planning a quilt to explore the sensation of swimming through the heavens. There will be buttons, fish, clouds, and swirls of blue.

Now what? I’d come through the experience with my sight intact but with scars at the backs of my eyes from the laser procedures. Quite often I’d lay my hands gently over my eyes and imagine a life without sight. There are worse things, I know, but I thought of everything I loved to look at–tulips, birds in flight, favourite landscapes, the sky (particularly the late February sky at 6:30 p.m. on a fine day when it’s the blue of Maxfield Parrish paintings, sometimes with Venus and a new moon hanging silver above the Douglas firs), the faces of those I love (an increasing number of people because of grandchildren), prairie fields from a great height (flying from the coast to Ottawa and back), freshly washed sheets fluttering on the clothesline in wind, the chartreuse flowers on bigleaf maples, and so many more things–and I’d realize how grateful I was that I wasn’t blind. Sometimes I’d hold my hands over my eyes for a bit longer because I was crying. (from “Anatomy of a Button”, Blue Portugal & Other Essays, University of Alberta Press, 2022)