I took this picture on Wednesday this week. My contacts had not settled in my eyes correctly from the moment I first put them in that morning, and they bothered me throughout the day. It felt like an eyelash was in my eye throughout every class and meeting, so by the time the school day ended, I was ready just to deal with my shortsightedness on the ride home. I took out my contacts and instantly felt relief.
Relief that was quickly overwhelmed by my brain trying to make sense of the fuzzy pictures that now bombarded it. Naturally. And of course it was a gorgeously clear day, with the mountains unveiling themselves a bit for the afternoon; I could not appreciate it, since they appeared to me as a fuzzy line.
By the time the bus really got rolling on the highway, I was fixated solely on my eyesight and how bad it really is at telling me what there is across the long stretches of Moroccan semi-desert.
I didn’t so much pity myself as much as marvel at the insular world that develops when I can’t see very far. It wouldn’t be safe for me to drive without my glasses or contacts, for example. I can’t read the road signs without them. This is a frustrating state for a person who enjoys traveling. I have to pack up my contacts and glasses when I go, and spur-of-the-moment trips require a touch more planning than they would if I had perfect vision. It’s laughable, I know, considering the very real disabilities and obstacles that other people face; I’m not suggesting that I am saintly for soldiering on, in spite of it all, with my contact lenses. Rather, I’m saying that I thought of limitations and how we respond to them.
We all have limitations. We need to sleep, to eat, to rest or play. And we can resent our limitations or—as I’m learning to do—accept them. We can even appreciate the things they bring to the forefront of our minds*. For me, I quite literally could not see in the distance, so I had to turn from my usual window-centric positioning on the bus to focus on what was near: my colleagues. The people I live with.
This tendency of mine to focus on the distant horizon and not on the people present with me is often writ large in my personal life. For years, I have been half-there in most situations, always feeling like I wanted to be somewhere else. Somewhere else more exciting, or more fulfilling—I don’t honestly know what I was looking for. But here, in Marrakesh, for whatever reason I’m starting to learn to be present instead of always looking for the next exciting event in the future. I’m starting to accept the charge of American missionary Jim Eliot: “Wherever you are, be all there.”
A friend I’ve made here says that “Marrakesh is a healing place.” Another friend told me last night that Marrakesh is strange. It frustrates you and allures you at the same time. “It has this...pulse,” she finished. We none of us can fully describe what drew us here, but for me, Marrakesh is teaching me to rest, to pause before making big decisions, and to appreciate my limitations. If you know me well, you know that it is indeed a strange place to be accomplishing such monumental tasks.
*I’m not saying that all limitations are handy little lessons for us to learn, nor am I saying that limitations are the same thing as very real illnesses or disabilities. I cannot speak to living with the latter, and I in no way am preaching that people living with disabilities or illnesses should appreciate these challenges.
Our limitations are part of us, but we can deal with them in so many ways. Try not to let them become your way of life, but challenges to overcome with growth or other pursuits.