I turned the calendar to a new page. An image of a quiet path between two stone walls strewn with fallen leaves, long and narrow, presented a solitary autumn image. Underneath, there was a message: “There is a road from the eye to the heart that does not go through the intellect. G.K. Chesterton”
I grew up influenced by people that taught me how to organize my thoughts intellectually. I went through years of academic training learning to tear words and notes apart and, then, put them back in good order. I hardly ever look at an object without thinking about the deeper meaning of its existence.
Friends asked me how I kept so many things in my memories. The simple answer is “eyes.” From time to time something special makes my heart cry out, “Look!” As the shutter opens and closes, the image locks permanently within me. As years go by, these images accumulated and became part of me, without me knowing.
Mom made me carry a notebook every time we went on a long trip. She made me keep a travel log at the end each day. Since she never asked my brother to do the same, I always felt that I was being treated unjustly. The little notebook in my bag always seemed heavier than a stone. It made the end of the evening unpleasant. Mom asked me to recall what I saw during the day. Sometimes, she asked me to compare what I experienced with the descriptions in tourist pamphlets. Gradually, this regimen became a norm. I didn’t keep any of the notebooks, but the special moments lived on.
The path from my eyes to my heart is a solitary one, long and quiet. . . I am letting unlatched the door on one end of the path. . .