Through eyes of the blind

THE park bench was deserted as I sat down beneath the old willow tree; disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, for the world was intent on dragging me down.

A young boy out of breath approached me. "Look what I found!"

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight with its petals all worn. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off, I faked a small smile. Instead of retreating he sat next to me and placed the flower to his nose, declaring, "It smells pretty and it's beautiful, too. That's why I picked it. It's for you."

The weed before me was dying. Not vibrant of colours. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower. But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, he held it mid-air without reason or plan.

It was then that I noticed for the very first time that weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.

I heard my voice quiver, tears shone in the sun as I thanked him for picking the best one. "You're welcome," he smiled.

I sat and wondered how he managed to see a self-pitying person beneath the willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight? Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.

Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see the problem was not with the world; it was me. So I held that wilted flower up to my nose and breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose. I smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand, about to change the life of an unsuspecting old man. Mutma'inna