Emily Dickinson had banal moments, too.
I have to believe that sometimes she looked at the world about her and saw...nothing extraordinary. No leaping leopards hailed the sunrise. Not a strain of laughter could the rain tickle out of the silent gables. March days forgot their purple shoes, and slants of light bore no audible weight. Bluebirds left bucaneering to pirate lore.
Perhaps for hours at a time, Emily would allow the world to stand stripped of metaphor. She must have taken things for granted, on occasion.
I have to believe that she practiced. She rehearsed the art of seeing like Michael Jordan practiced freethrows: correcting the posture of her heart, bending her mind into the perfect angle, and focusing her sherry-in-the-glass eyes, until slipping into that higher vision felt natural and she could do it at will.
I have to believe these things, because if high vision can be trained, there is hope for my common soul yet. Maybe one of these days I'll hit the backboard. The rim. The net.
Swish.
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