The light changed, suffusing the clouds with a soft glow and shadowing the sky that strange half-light that heralds a storm. The rain, it seemed, had settled in, pattering against the window and drawing the eye to focus on the diamond streaks of misery. Yet, beyond the pane there was colour, molten gold flaming in the sky as the day drew to a close.
I picked up the camera, unwilling to get wet by going outside, but determined to capture at least one moment of the crepuscular display. The camera fastened its gaze firmly on the immediacy of the window pane and refused to look farther than its proverbial nose, consigning distant beauty to an indistinct netherworld beyond its focus.
I fiddled with the settings, desperate to circumvent the limitations of the camera, but to no avail. While I was doing so, the constant shifting of light and cloud meant that the opportunity to capture the moment was slipping away.
All I could see through the shortened lens was looming patches of darkness against consuming fire. The rain restricted the perception of the lens, not only erasing detail but transforming it into an uneasy vista of threatening possibilities. Yet it only took a flicker of the eye to look beyond the lens and see a different landscape that sent me outside, regardless of the rain.
It occurred to me that I recognised the pattern all too well. I had to ask myself, “Where do you focus? On the rain on the pane or the vista beyond?” and realised that, all too often, the instinctive reaction is to focus on the pain on the pane.
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