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I’ve recently discovered color. And sound. And motion. It’s changing everything.

Metaphorically speaking, I’ve been living in a world of black-and-white still images for most of my life. I didn’t realize what I had been missing.

I’m slowly starting to see the world as a full-color, three-dimensional sensory experience with amazing sound — intellectually speaking.

I’ve always thought I was a bright guy. I’ve always considered myself well-read and well-educated. I’ve probably been a little smug about it.

About 10 years ago, I started adding to my intellectual diet. Although I had read a lot of fiction when I was young — mostly science fiction — the bulk of my real reading diet had been very factual and very practical. I’d mostly read about things that seemed pragmatic — business, economics, politics and psychology.

I started reading classic literature and essays. Leo Tolstoy. Hermann Hesse. Fyodor Dostoevsky. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Montaigne. Alexandre Dumas. G.K. Chesterton. Even Charles Dickens. The more I read, the more I realized how ignorant I had been.

I suddenly realized that these people made me look like an intellectual pygmy — and the fact that their work had been popular with masses of people in their own days made me realize how far our intellectual standards have fallen.

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About 20 years ago, I met and dated a beautiful and charming woman. She was the stereotypical California blonde. Tall and beautiful.

I could tell she was impressed by money and material things, but I ignored that. And I quickly noticed signs that she wasn’t entirely trustworthy. I ignored that, too. Why?

Because she was beautiful and charming and intelligent. She had so much potential. If she could just change in a few specific ways, she would be the perfect woman for me.

The relationship ended quickly. She acted badly in ways that were entirely predictable. I had allowed myself to be blinded by the things that attracted me to her. If you listed all of her pluses and minuses, she might’ve scored a 90 or 95 percent. But the parts of her that were completely wrong for me were the non-negotiables.

I let myself be swayed by what I wanted to be true. She showed me — very early — who she really was. I just didn’t believe her.

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I’ve heard her name dozens of times, but I can’t remember what it is. She’s the one who nobody at her job likes. She’s the one who gets talked about when she’s not around.

But when I saw her Thursday, her face caught my attention. She was on a break from work. She was sitting quietly. Her face was blank, but she looked stressed — and she looked as though she might’ve been crying.

I sat down next to her. I can’t claim I was being kind or generous. It was out of instinct, not because I really wanted to. I couldn’t ignore someone who appeared to be in distress, even if her co-workers’ stories had prepared me to dislike her.

I wasn’t sure how to start, so I just told her I hadn’t seen her in the store recently. She told me she had been in a hospital — in an intensive care unit — for a week.

There was pain in her face. It wasn’t physical pain, but emotional distress.

As her story tumbled out, a lot of things suddenly made sense. She was no longer just a 21-year-old who snapped at co-workers and seemed to pick fights for little reason.

She was suddenly a young woman who had been battling a serious medical issue for the last year. She was someone who just had a hysterectomy because of the medical problem. She was a woman who desperately wanted to have children — and who just had to face the fact that she will never have children.

I was ashamed of myself for having judged her.

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