That’s the color of my eyes. They aren’t blue, brown, green, or grey. They’re all of those colors. They’re the color of a bruise. I’ve always amusingly assumed it was a metaphor for how I view life.
People have stopped me on the street to comment on my eyes and their unusual color. I remember being in the line at a Walgreen’s with my older brother when a woman stopped to mention my eyes. Before that day, I don’t think my brother had given my face much thought much less my eye color – brothers get so used to looking at you over the years.
As a kid, I asked my mom what color my eyes are noting the eye color mention on a driver’s license. She said, “I guess they’re maybe… hazel? Maybe – hmmm?” My own mom wasn’t even sure the color of my eyes.
I wonder if having my hard-to-peg eye color is part of what keeps me wondering about life not content to land on black and white certainty about much. I see and feel with my eyes. I attempt to see it all. I strive to understand and stay in a curious place.
From my youngest ages, I was never sure how to describe with colorful little girl adjectives the source of my own sight. Maybe that uncertainty is what gave me vision to never apologize for having eyes that see others kindly – in all of their many colors, too, as human beings.
Kind eyes don’t have to be bruise-colored eyes, but sometimes it is the bruises in life that give you the opportunity to keep your eyes kind.