Vision, as I’ve come to know it, doesn’t begin with the eyes. It comes from elsewhere — from that deep, inward terrain shaped by longing, softened by sorrow, and hollowed by love’s absences.
It’s not something I go looking for anymore. It arrives — unbidden — in the tender ruins. In the aftermath of what has fallen away.
Grief, in its strange mercy, clears the ground. It strips away what’s false and leaves only what’s real. And it’s there, in the silence after the tears, that vision sometimes flickers — not as light, but as presence. Not as explanation, but as invitation.
And sometimes — often — it’s in the stillness. In the quiet cup of breath, the weight of the body resting on this good earth. When the noise subsides and the moment is met with holy attention, something begins to shimmer.
Not to be seized. Not to be understood. But to be received.
Vision isn’t something I possess. It’s something that reveals itself… when I’m empty enough to behold it.
Nigel Lott teaandzen.org
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