The photographer Walter De Mulder defined photography this way: “always seeing something, never seeing nothing.” Since I began taking photographs around the time i met Maria – i know the two things are connected – I have been privileged to see the world anew, to discover the color and light and emotion of the world in a completely new and different way.

For a man entering his sixth decade, that was nothing short of a miracle, and remains a miracle today.  My eyes had a great rebirth.

Several months ago, I noticed that when I read the pages of a book, the tops of the letters were cut off and blurring, this shocked me, as reading and writing, like photography, is akin to breathing for me.

My sight is precious to me, as it is to everyone else. I went to the doctors and they found a retinal disorder,  a burst blood vessel. This is sometimes related to diabetes, sometimes to other things. I never had to think about seeing.

This incident caused a large swelling in the eye. Unchecked, this could lead to blindness, and until a few years ago, invariably did.

The first round of treatment was a special eye drop, and the swelling has been reduced and is away from the retina, and my vision is  excellent and has returned to normal. I see all the letters quite clearly. But the swelling remains and is threatening the retina, and will almost certainly return.

So Monday, after Maria and I get back from Salem, Mass.  to celebrate her birthday,  I go to an eye hospital for tests to see what kind of treatment or surgery is appropriate for me, and perhaps undergo surgery on the spot.

They are focusing on laser treatments, which often work in these cases.

My doctors seem optimistic about laser treatment removing the swelling completely. That would be great. There are other options, including regular injections into the eye. Like so many things – open heart surgery, for instance – they sound more disturbing than they are, and are done so frequently as to almost be mundane.

For me, this is not a drama or a tragedy, and I am not terrified of treatment. Open heart surgery brought me perspective, so has working with so many people with no access to  health insurance or modern medicine at all. I feel both confident and fortunate. This is life, and I accept that life comes with struggles and change.

I don’t feel the need for prayers – I don’t think this rises to that level – many people have it so much worse than I do. Maria will go with me to make sure I  do what I’m told and to be by my side.

Not too long ago, the doctor told me, there was no preventing blindness from this disease. I have nothing to squawk about.

Now there are miracle procedures and medications that routinely save the eye and the sight. I feel quite fortunate to be on the right end of this treatment.  I would miss many things about losing all or part my sight, of course, but I most often think of not being able to take pictures or read books in a conventional way.

My art lenses are hard enough to focus without retinal troubles.

So in the interest of being open, I just wanted to share the news. I’ll write about it again when it’s over, and thanks in advance for your good wishes.

Most of us don’t think about seeing that much, there isn’t much reason to. We do it automatically and instinctively.

Photography has truly taught me to see, not to look. My pictures are not what the camera sees, they are what I see. My life is so much richer for them, and they were the means by which Maria and I, both voiceless and stunned with fear and confusion, learned to talk to and love one another.

The philosopher Frederick Nietzche wrote about seeing in the “Twilight Of The Idols.” To learn to see, to accustom the eye to calmness, to patience, and to allow things to come up to it; to defer judgment,” he wrote, “and to acquire the habit of approaching and grasping an individual case from all sides.”

This, he said,  is the first preparatory schooling of intellectuality.” One must acquire a command of the instincts that obstruct and isolate. Seeing allows the world to come up to us.

More later.