The Way I See It… (all lies and jest)

Written for Chico Enterprise Record: North State Voices

“Life is like a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-coloured lenses which paint the world their own hue…” – Ralph Waldo Emerson 

When my daughter was young, my brother was famous for “cool uncle” gifts: talking robots, elaborate magical board games, and, one year, a medieval knight’s helmet. An interesting gift: it’s a full-size helmet complete with a moving visor and an opening neck plate. It’s made from sheet-metal, not iron and steel like the originals, but heavy enough. And anyone wearing it would definitely need an outfit of chain-mail underneath; the edges of the moving parts are wickedly sharp.

I’m not a medievalist, I had no idea what to do with that helmet, but my brother had given it to us so I wanted to keep it. Maybe I’d find a use for it someday. I didn’t, however, want my kid to cut herself on it, so I put it in the garage. Up on a shelf. Up on the highest shelf of a little-used cabinet built against a wall where a fire door slams a bit each time someone goes through it. I stashed the helmet there and forgot about it.

One day, months later, I was looking for our hand-held vacuum. I was grumpy– resentful because I was cleaning, and the vacuum wasn’t where it was supposed to be. My frustrated search led me to the garage where I opened up that little-used cabinet. Here, unbeknownst to me, the sharp, heavy metal helmet had been making its way to the edge of the shelf every time the fire door closed. When I opened the cabinet door, the helmet was primed to fall.

And fall it did, directly onto my unsuspecting, upturned face. Now remember, it was on the highest shelf, and so that full-sized man’s helmet gained velocity on its way to me. And remember those sharp moving parts? They opened when they met my face. Since shock prevents injury from being fully realized, I couldn’t readily determine how bad it was, but I knew it was bad.

My hands, instinctively covering my face on impact, felt wet. I was afraid to take them away and find blood or worse. My vision was blurry–was it because my glasses were lying broken on the garage floor, or had one of my eyes been gouged? I could make out the helmet splayed open next to my glasses. Was I bleeding from a jagged tear across my face? Would my nose be all there? I ran to the bathroom dreading what I would find.

I stood terrified at the mirror and peered through my fingers and… no gruesome monster looked back. Taking my hands away, I realized with intense relief that somehow no real damage had been done. Other than a swelling (but unbroken) nose, and watering eyes that would eventually turn slightly black, there was barely a scratch. 

Thank God, amazingly, I was alright. Thank God it hadn’t been my daughter or one of her grandparents or friends who’d opened that cabinet. What could have been disastrous was instead a minor accident, and thank God I still could clean the house instead of having to race to the hospital for emergency reconstructive surgery! 

The resentment I’d carried walking into the garage had literally been knocked out of me, and in its place came great gratitude. The rapid and complete change in my attitude, through such dramatic circumstances, seems to have created a lasting fundamental shift in my overall outlook. I’ve a lot more reason to be appreciative than I do to be grumpy, and I tend to remember that more often now. Turns out, that medieval helmet was pretty darn useful after all. Its fall made me see things differently (and when I chose my replacement glasses I chose a pair embodying the rosier tint of my proverbial lenses).

Of course I subsequently moved the helmet. It now lives in my classroom where I tell this story every year. It looks out of my office window into the middle school hallway; its presence asks us to maintain awareness of how we look at things and reminds us that sometimes a shift in perspective can make all the difference. 

Incidentally February is my brother’s birthday month, so here’s to you Brother. And to all of you. May your sharp edges rest easy, may your hearts be filled with gratitude, and may your lenses, whatever their hue, be clear.