In late afternoon, I look at the dappled light between branches and leaves, the brilliance of the sun bright in the sky beyond. The light is bright, almost blinding, but still mottled and broken by leaves left hanging in the early fall air. The longer I stare into the trees, the more images I see. What was almost hidden by the clots of color, shapes, and textures becomes crisp and clear.
Abraham Lincoln is there, his beard outlined by a tree branch whose twigs form the curves of his face. And there is a pelican, wings spread in flight, just about to touch the water with his downturned bill. The shadows of twisted limbs form the arch of a Roman warrior’s helmet. A woman’s face, her lips full and inviting, looks back at me from the tops of the trees.
I wonder, are these images real? Is my brain simply manufacturing them, or do my eyes see forms that another person would see just as I see them? Some days, the images are so vivid and clear that I am certain I am having visions; other days, they are dull and hazy, almost invisible. The days when they’re visible are the days I feel most alert and alive. There must be a connection.
