Friday, September 18, 2009

Seeing



It was not until my late teens or early twenties that I began to see. Before that I was too preoccupied with my soap-opera-ish life to see the world around me. Then one day I began to change. It started in Israel. I was nineteen years old and working on a kibbutz when a departing friend, in an attempt to lighten their backpack, gave me a birding guide. It turned out to be a perceptive gift.

I still have the book. The simple drawings and formulaic text drew me in. I searched for the pictured critters and unbeknownst to me started my life list of birds. It occupied me in lands where no English was spoken. Stopping for the night I would set up camp–I spent six months of my year abroad in a cheap tent–and then venture to explore the local fauna.

I saw shag in Scotland, white stork in Israel, ptarmigan on Vassfjora Mountain in Norway and mute swan in England. I saw dunnocks, willow tits, white wagtails, magpies and hoopoes. The ritual of birding comforted me as homesickness set in. I resisted returning home, but one wintry afternoon found myself back in Chicago.

It may have been England’s grey winter that finally turned the tide. Rebuffed by a global oil crisis and left with no source of income I was forced home instead of to Spain, as was my plan. The birds, oblivious to my economic shortcomings, simply headed south as the days shorten.

I have much to thank them for. Nearly every significant thing I have done since is contingent on receiving that book from a near stranger. The process of looking for and identifying birds taught me how to silence the commotion in my mind. Through birding I learned concentration, comprehension and how to study. The knowledge that flowed has been empowering.

My father was instrumental in my learning to see. He was not an educated man, but he was an interested one. He had an infectious enthusiasm. I would be taken to Chicago’s lakefront to watch smelt fisherman or to walk through the harbors examining boats as we went. He had a gift for engaging strangers in conversation and our mini expeditions were revelatory for me. We, or I should say he, would talk to anyone be they fishermen or ship captains. In his disarming way he picked their brains and I listened to them express their passion.

One place we visited was The Adler Planetarium. There in the basement behind a large window was a shop where telescopic mirrors were made. One difference between my father and me is that he never pursued the things he showed an interest in. He worked long hours providing for us; he golfed on the weekends; he drove my mother wherever she wanted to go; and he took meticulous care of his home and car.

I am different. I have done very little of the above, but I have done, or at least tried to do, all of the things that interest me. Two of those things are astronomy and telescopes, and so, they became my next path into the nature of seeing. When I finally had the chance, I made three mirrors in the basement of Adler Planetarium. Three telescopes followed and a new way of seeing was open to me.

Birds are one thing, but planets, stars and nebula are another. We are spoiled by images from the Hubble space telescope. To look into a beautiful telescope like my eight-inch Newtonian reflector is a disappointment at first. The images are small and shaky.

Before you can see you must first let your eyes become sensitized to the dark. This chemical process cannot be rushed. It takes place in the rods that make up most of the retina. Twenty minutes is good, but a couple of hours are better. Stray light will quickly reverse the process, so you have to be careful.

The best star gazing in the Midwest is when it is clear and cold. Astronomers wait for frigid Canadian high-pressure systems to sink down and cover us with dense stable air, the kind that makes airplanes sound as if they are right over our head. It provides a direct view out into the universe and the sky becomes three-dimensional.

The moon looks as crisp as a starched white shirt. The planets are palpable. Globular clusters resemble Star Trek’s hyperspace, and stars are the color of the rainbow. There is so much more to see with the enhanced light collecting ability of even the smallest telescope. All this comes at a cost. There is cold and boredom, clouds and technical glitches, but if you persevere your worldview will never be the same.

The visual lessons I have gleaned from birding and astronomy translate into a love of the radiographic image, and in my line of work I see many x-rays. X-rays are shadows and every gradation of grey is significant.

My examination of an x-ray starts by standing back to get an overall impression, just as you would with a large painting. I squint my eyes to see if any areas stand out. Then begin a closer inspection. Working from the outer border into the center, I examine soft tissue and bone. If I see an abnormality I leave it until I have surveyed the entire x-ray. Only then do I go back and focus on the variants.

We have to learn to see. It is a skill that needs nurturing. Seeing is not random, there are steps. As you gain experience you realize that glossing over them to save time, cost you time.

When I started my quest to see I had 20/20 vision, a full head of hair and a slim waistline. This has changed, but what has not is my desire to see the world as it is. With its beauty and ugliness, its splendor and banality, and not make distinctions. If I can continue to do so I will rest peacefully with the hindsight that eyeglasses, grey hair and a protruding belly brings.

Volume 5776 (4), 9/18/09