“If we may see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our entire life would change.” ~Buddha
There are seasons when life feels stripped of pleasure, when hope appears distant, unreachable, or unreal. Seasons while you get up already exhausted, and it appears like there’s nothing gentle left on the planet—no magnificence, no connection, nothing to relaxation in. I’ve been dwelling in that season these days.
I’m shedding my imaginative and prescient to macular degeneration. I’m a caregiver for my ninety-six-year-old mom. I’m navigating incapacity, monetary pressure, and the sensation that the longer term is shrinking as a substitute of widening. Most days, I transfer by the world numb and drained, making an attempt to recollect who I was.
I maintain looking for one thing to carry on to, however pleasure appears like vapor—one thing I can see briefly however not contact. One thing different individuals have. One thing I can’t appear to reside in.
Each Different Friday
Twice a month, I am going to my eye physician for injections that gradual the lack of my imaginative and prescient. The ready room is all the time crammed with quiet stress—fearful eyes, deep breaths, individuals making an attempt to not crumble. I sit and breathe, ready for my title to be referred to as.
And each time, with out fail, there’s a girl—perhaps in her late fifties or early sixties—who enters already livid. Earlier than she even sits down, she’s preventing with the receptionist.
“That is ridiculous. I’ve been ready endlessly. None of you realize what you’re doing!”
If somebody steps too near the counter, she lashes out:
“Don’t you dare lower in entrance of me!”
She screams into her cellphone, cursing the driving force who introduced her there at no cost. She talks loudly about how the world has deserted her. As soon as, she turned to me and stated:
“Individuals such as you don’t know what it’s like. You’re privileged. You don’t care.”
Everybody within the room freezes. Heads sink. Our bodies tighten. The air turns sharp. It appears like all security disappears.
Every time I witness her rage, a quiet thought echoes inside me: Is that this what we’ve develop into? A world with out empathy, with out heat, with out pleasure?
It jogs my memory of what so many people are feeling at the moment—an awesome sense of isolation, worry, and disconnection. A society the place individuals carry a lot ache that anger turns into the one language they’ve left.
And I really feel it inside myself too.
A Second That Modified One thing
However lately, one thing occurred that shifted the best way I noticed every little thing.
Just a few days earlier than certainly one of my appointments, I used to be sitting with my mom. I don’t keep in mind what we have been speaking about—one thing small, peculiar. However abruptly, we each laughed. Not a well mannered snigger or a small smile. An actual snigger—full, shocking, alive.
I heard the enjoyment in her voice. I noticed her face gentle up. I felt my chest soften and my shoulders loosen. I felt a launch of stress I didn’t even notice I used to be holding. For a number of seconds, I felt a deep, fleeting happiness.
And whereas it was occurring, I knew the second was particular. It arrived abruptly and disappeared shortly, but it surely was actual. And it jogged my memory that I’m nonetheless able to pleasure—that my coronary heart isn’t damaged past restore, simply drained.
Seeing Her Otherwise
So after I returned to the attention clinic and the offended girl erupted into the room once more—shouting, cursing, accusing—one thing shifted.
I checked out her, and as a substitute of feeling threatened, I noticed somebody drowning in ache. Somebody whose struggling has nowhere to go. Somebody who may not have laughed in years. Somebody deserted by a world that retains transferring with out her.
Her anger wasn’t energy. It was heartbreak in disguise. It was grief with no place to land.
And I spotted that she just isn’t the issue—she is the symptom.
A symptom of a society the place individuals really feel unseen, the place struggling is ignored, the place worry turns into louder than compassion, and the place pleasure is handled like a luxurious as a substitute of nourishment.
Hope Is Not a Grand Emotion
I used to suppose hope meant a significant turning level—a dramatic transformation, a transparent second of redemption. I assumed pleasure wanted to be massive to matter.
Now I perceive one thing totally different:
Hope is small.
Hope is temporary.
Hope is quiet.
Hope is a spark, not a fireplace.
Hope is listening to your mom snigger.
Hope is a breath that loosens stress.
Hope is noticing a second whereas it’s occurring.
Hope is refusing to let ache outline the story.
One Small Second Can Save Us
The world might really feel joyless at instances. It might really feel harsh and divided. It might really feel filled with anger like the lady within the ready room. However each time somebody laughs—each time somebody softens—each time a second breaks by the darkness, it proves one thing important:
Life continues to be right here. Pleasure continues to be potential. The center nonetheless remembers.
We don’t have to attend for every little thing to be okay to permit one thing small to matter.
A Apply for When Hope Feels Gone
Shut your eyes for a second. Take a gradual breath.
Bear in mind one second—nonetheless tiny—while you felt heat or connection.
Fun. A smile. A handheld. Daylight in your face. Something.
Maintain that reminiscence gently for 5 breaths. Watch what occurs inside you.
That feeling is the seed of therapeutic.
A query: When was the final time you felt even a small spark of pleasure?
What would occur in the event you let that second matter?
My reply: I heard my mom snigger. And at the moment, I’m selecting to let that be sufficient.
About Tony Collins
Edward “Tony” Collins, EdD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, author, educator, and incapacity advocate dwelling with progressive imaginative and prescient loss from macular degeneration. His work explores presence, caregiving, resilience, and the quiet energy of small moments. He’s presently finishing books on inventive scholarship and collaborative documentary filmmaking and shares private essays about that means, hope, and incapacity on Substack.
Join: tonycollins.substack.com | iefilm.com
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