Seeing Through Another’s Eyes – Dedicated to my grandpa who suffers from glaucoma

"We are to do an experiential exercise." said Thom, the guest lecturer. Was that a twinkle in his eye, or was it just dust? I immediately thought we would create the normal reaction piece to what we had heard in his talk. I was wrong. We were handed a diamante poem worksheet and then told to write words that described possessions we could take to a nursing home. As I thought about what I could write, I remembered that in truth, there was nothing. I was only eleven when I had learned this. My Sunday school teacher had asked us to write a list of things we would have when we became old. Then, one by one, she had us cross them off as she explained why each would not remain. I could lose my memory and not know my name. I would always be a sister, but my sisters could die. I could forget I was a sister. My family could move away or leave this earth. I could watercolor, but I could also get arthritis or lose the use of my limbs to some other disease. I am creative, but my mind could deteriorate. In truth I could go into elderly long term care and be living in my death. I was jerked from my dark thoughts and word writing by Thom.

There was something fishy about the box Thom was digging in as he talked. "You are to make an art piece," he said still digging around. "So I was right." I thought. He took out an envelope and told us to pick a limitation. I was wrong.

I picked a limitation: "hip replacement." I then chose another: "Glaucoma." Thom handed gloves and big black glasses with spots on them to me. As soon as I dawned on this gear I felt a loss of independence. We were to create a response to our poem as best as we could with our current limitations. I wanted to paint my response, but could not see or stand to get my supplies. "Professor Roy! Would it be possible to water color?" She smiled and answered "yes." Eventually she returned with a very big brush and shallow dish of water. I did not know she was there until she set the utensils down. I picked up the brush. The bigness of the brush made it easier to hold in my clammy gloves. I was frustrated that I did not have much control over my painting. I layered angry color over sad color and added a thoughtful touch. "That is good!" professor Roy exclaimed. I couldn't tell. My world was in shadows.

I went back to my dark world only to be interrupted by a hand going past my left side. Thom set a little cup of something he called water in front of me and the other students and then told us to drink it. I gagged. It was tasteless gooey stuff and felt nothing like water. My painting was interrupted once again so that I could take my pill. And then the painting stopped completely. Time was up.

My life was an interruption.

And then we were done. We placed our titled infirmities safely back in the little white envelope and impairments back in the big brown box. We dropped the glasses and eye patches as if they were dead rats and hurried away. I sat down in the same chair, in the same place, before the painting I had just painted. But I was not the same.

I grew up going to nursing homes with my parents. We would visit the shut-ins and the sick. I have a good imagination. I have tried to walk in others' shoes. But I have not. I have not experienced the frustration. I have not felt the loss and I have not felt lost. My hands were only so clumsy when I was two, and that I do not remember. I have never felt the darkness.

The one joy at that moment was that I liked my painting. As I looked down on the watery strokes, my mind pulsed with a new appreciation for the gift of sight – my glimpse into someone else's world.