An Optician’s View
| April 7, 2021From time to time, the glasses slipped off and the panorama became markedly different
I refuse to remove my rose-tinted glasses; they’ve just become too precious. As I look back over the decades, I know that the rosy tint of the lenses provided an important, protective coloring to my own life and to the lives of so many of my contemporaries. We saw the harmony in family, the compassion of friends and neighbors, the friendliness of schoolmates, and the comforting predictability of each sunrise and sunset.
That’s how it was way back in those “ancient times” (as my kids call it) of post-war living. We lacked for nothing, had fun playing in the lane with the neighborhood kids, and life was rosy.
But from time to time, the glasses slipped off and the panorama became markedly different. What did my friends and I really see? We saw our parents struggling. Even as youngsters, we knew that, somehow, they were different. Their smiles were heavy, loaded with a trace of something else.
We had fun, laughing and racing around the block, playing ball or playing house. But we kept our eyes open. If you were playing indoors, then you played quietly, careful not to disturb the equilibrium. Perhaps there was a parent who was learning, resting, or simply not in the mood. We were aware, very aware.
Most of the time, though, we kept those tinted lenses on. Shul was alive. People were davening with such kavanah, the baal tefillah was so hartzig, and the children were mesmerized and silent the entire morning. Isn’t every shul like that?
When the shofar was blown, you could see and feel the Shechinah. Our parents, all survivors, practically glowed with the holiness of the moment.
But there were other shades, too, and we saw those as well. Our parents were in pain. Terrible pain. The complexity of survival and loss had its own hue. We knew we had to be perfect, we knew never to trigger more anguish. Shul was a place where we saw our parents expose themselves to the Creator and plead for the supernatural strength to move forward. What did we know….
The rosy lenses are back on. The pre Kol Nidrei derashah. The rav spoke strongly against allowing heilige Yiddishe kinderlach to read comics, specifically Superman comics (remember those?). “Avodah zarah!” he cried. “Protect your children!” We laughed. We children found it amusing to hear the rav speak about comics on Erev Yom Kippur. But our parents were terrified that, chas v’shalom, their pure children would be tainted.
“Where are you going, and when will you be back?” My mother asked these questions with a smile on her face. She was happy that I was going to a friend’s house and would be enjoying myself. She really was happy. But truthfully, what she was saying was, “I need to know exactly where you are going and exactly what time you’ll be back so that I know where you are at all times.” Behind the smile was a lingering fear, a “what if…” Lateness, even five minutes, implied a problem, G-d forbid a big one. Never, ever be late in coming home. Did I or my friends understand this bottomless pit of this subdued terror?
Now, many years later, we understand so much more. No wonder I wear progressive lenses. Things have progressively begun to make more sense. Our parents gave us life, and we were everything to them. We knew our task, and we tried our best. Instinctively, we understood.
As any good optician knows, with time, lenses require adjustments. But what I know is that leaving the rosy tint intact is a good thing. Magically, it really does change everything.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 737)
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