Eye-yii-yii! I’m trying to tell myself that I’m still learning about life, not drifting into doesn’t-matterness. You know, asleep on the couch in the middle of the day.

Cataract surgery on my second eye (the rightie) was almost a week ago now and it went well. my vision seems slightly more enthusiastic. Biggest noticeable change: I can read captions on the TV screen without my glasses, which suddenly don’t help with that at all, though I still need them for ordinary reading.

What’s going on with my life right now feels larger than post-cataract-surgery recovery . . . so much larger that I don’t want to write about it, but feel I must do so because I want to write about something. As I cuddle myself at my sister’s kitchen table with this notebook, feeling lost and subjectless, I nonetheless sense a return of emotional energy – simply because I’m doing something . . . so I hope, so I pray . . . that matters.

When that sense vanishes from my life, what happens isn’t just an emotional crash. The crash I feel is also physical. I start losing the will to stay awake! This is a phenomenon I’ve never experienced before in my life, or read about anywhere.

Does this make any sense? Is this a feeling anyone recognizes?

Without a sense of purpose, I can feel ready for a nap as soon as I get out of bed in the morning. I can start feeling exhausted without any physical exertion. I might as well be floating in some unknown galaxy. I let my body crumple on my sister’s couch and don’t exactly sleep. I lie there, mouth open, quietly breathing – and that’s it. I’m not “resting up” for my next task of the day. I’m entering the unknown, but not as a participant. It’s more like I’m simply collapsing into temporary non-existence.

Last week I mentioned a retirement community’s three-word slogan: Strength. Purpose. Belonging. The words resonated intensely with me. Today my focus is on that middle word: purpose. Without it, I am not myself. Without it, a sense of belonging doesn’t seem possible. I’m just a guy partially asleep on the couch.

But when I open my notebook, pen in hand, I wake up. Will I hit the truth? Who knows? All I know is that I’m trying – struggling – to make sense out of aging, as I’m experiencing it. I wake up not when somebody tells me what to do, but when I tell muyself what to do. In no way does this mean that I’m “on my own.” I’m getting enormous help from my family, not to mention the medical community, as I reclaim my vision and recover from my surgeries. But I also have to believe that my purpose here matters. I want to continue helping to push the world in a loving direction and bleeding enough honesty to reach others. How, oh God, how?

And suddenly, as I write, Sue’s cat – Ayla – jumps on the table. Hello? She plops herself on my notebook, but I’m not annoyed. Instead, I feel honored. Another soul has joined me. I stroke her back and she purrs softly. Oh heart! She’s blessing my words. We bond for several minutes, then she jumps on my lap and walks off.

But part of her stays with me. Her unexpected presence morphs into a quote from the poet Mary Oliver, who writes in “The Buddha’s Last Instruction”:

… And then I feel the sun itself

as it blazes over the hills

like a million flowers on fire –

clearly I’m not needed,

yet I feel myself turning

into something of inexplicable value.

Wow. I’m still as present as I’ve ever been. My perspective still matters. It’s still needed. I’m still needed. So are you.