A Trick Of The Eye

A Trick of the Eye

Someone has said that one of the most crucial aspects of writing is noticing. I don’t disagree. Oh sure, there are tricks of the trade, but if a writer’s eyes and heart are not alert and awake to all that is around her, if she is not keen to notice the smallest sights and moments and unspoken words, well—you and I won’t likely read her work for long.

As readers, we’re looking for recognition: for the moment when we say, “Yes, of course, I’ve seen that too.” Or, “Oh—that’s like the conversation I had with my spouse last night.” Or, “That makes me think of that little deli in SoHo.”

If a writer really notices, her readers see what she sees, even if the image they perceive is not exactly the same as the one she describes. The words on the page create something more substantial than simply ink on paper. They take shape in the reader’s mind, connecting with a thousand tiny synapses of memory and resonating as real.

Last Friday I watched a hummingbird hover near the blooms off my front porch. I decided that I would stay and watch as long as she enjoyed my hedge. I’ve never seen something so small work so hard to stay in motion. On Sunday morning as a storm was brewing, I opened the screen door to smell the rain and feel the pregnant breeze stir. I swear I sensed the thunder before I heard its rumble: just the tiniest contraction in advance of the big event.

As real as these moments were to me, I suspect they were only quick renderings by God in one reality that strongly hint at another. Someday I will climb through the frame of this world and enter another. Someday a hummingbird might rest easily in my hand, and I may surf the wind that blows before a storm. Someday I will know that what I thought was the real world was only a taste of what would come, and even so, be grateful for the preview that was mine.

Now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

1 Corinthians 13:12, KJV