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Drama, drama, drama. What dull lives we would lead without our self-imposed drama, our invention of worries, regrets, minutiae writ large to create our presence, puff up our auras.
This morning while washing my face, or doing my hair, or something at the bathroom sink, I felt a mote in my right eye. Not the wrong eye but the right one.
Happens to everyone. I blinked. I dripped in an eyedrop. But that wicked pain remained. I rinsed the eye in tap water, bending over and cupping my hand under the running water and splashing it into the eye. There. That's better. But it isn't. It's still there. Another eyedrop.
I leave for the rest of the morning routine. With one eye shut I dress, I turn on the computer to print out the work I need to edit today. I go, one eye shut, to the other room for qi-gung, where I sit with both eyes closed, knowing (oh, this knowing I allow myself) that the eye will be healed and pain-free by the time I finish.
But no, it's still there thirty minutes later. In the back of my mind (the dramatic worry I was talking about) is the thought that it is not a mote in my eye (and I haven't even delved into the symbolism of all this) but something chemical. Something I use on my hair dripped into the eye and is inexorably working its caustic way into my eyeball.
By now I am mildly worried and seriously annoyed. I go back to the bathroom sink and let the water run until it is warm. I splash and splash and splash the warm water into the right eye. I finish, dry the eye socket, blink, put in one more eye-drop—and I'm healed.
Let the curtain fall. The morning's drama is over.
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