Voice Blurs

Left behind most nights. Waiting most mornings.

I’ve been thinking a lot about impermanence lately. Not just in the big, dramatic ways, but in the smaller, daily things we live with—like a slowly fading TV screen. I wrote this short reflection recently, and while it starts with a story about a television, it’s really about something deeper: learning to live with change and finding appreciation in the middle of it.

Voice Blurs

I have a very large TV. I came by it more accidentally than most people probably do when they end up with something like this—wall-mounted, a bit ridiculous. It’s a treat, really. And I’m proud of the work I did to mount it. I did that part myself.

Over the last few months, though, a dark, blurry shade has started developing in the center of the screen. It began at the top and now reaches about two-thirds of the way down. About a month ago, a second blur appeared—a sort of sister shadow—off to the right of the first. So far, it’s only made its way a third of the way down.

Depending on what I’m watching, the blurs are either a minor distraction or a creeping anxiety. Darker shows, moody Netflix series—those are still fine. But anything light, with brighter settings—nature shows, comedies—the blurs announce themselves more boldly, and it’s hard not to feel their presence. It’s like a small grief. Or a slow one.

The truth is, I’m not sure I could afford another TV like this. Not even sure I’d want one. (That might be part of the coping mechanism.) But watching the blurs grow, watching them take over more space, is an itch I can’t fully scratch. I find myself coming to terms with the inevitable: the TV will die one day, and until then, my enjoyment of it will keep fading, in increments I can’t predict.

And of course, I realize there’s no way to know how much time is left. On the TV. Or for me.

I turned 65 two weeks ago. One of those weeks disappeared completely. I was sick, a head cold maybe, but it wiped me out. A full week, gone. I barely remember it. Time doesn’t just move fast these days, it also skips. Whole days can vanish into blur.

So now, each time I turn on the TV, I try to let the appreciation in early. Before the screen fades further. Before I do. That feels like the deal now: a daily kind of noticing. A quiet thank-you. For the light that’s still coming through, even if the shapes aren't always clear.

Sometimes recovery isn’t about fixing what’s broken—it’s about learning to see what’s still shining through.

Even on days when things aren’t as clear as they used to be.