Toby’s eyes are where the world softens. They are not loud or dazzling, not made to catch attention, but they hold me with a gentleness that nothing else does. Brown and steady, warm as earth, they rest on me as if to say: you are here, and that is enough.
There is no hurry in Toby’s gaze. When the day spins too quickly, his eyes remind me of stillness. They carry patience like a river carries water—without effort, without end. I look into them and feel something loosen inside me, as though I can finally set down whatever I’ve been carrying.
His eyes do not measure or weigh; they do not ask for explanations. They simply meet mine, and in that meeting I feel known. There is a quiet trust in the way he looks, a trust that asks nothing more than that I return the moment, that I stay.
Sometimes there is mischief flickering there, a spark that makes me smile before I realize it. Other times there is only calm, deep and unwavering, as if he is keeping a watch the world will never notice but I will always feel.
Toby’s eyes are not extraordinary because of what they see. They are extraordinary because of how they see—steadily, faithfully, with a kind of love that does not need words. They are the soft light I carry with me, the gentle reminder that presence itself can be enough.
The Valley Viewpoint 