Getting Out of a Funk – Page 3

Paintings in the Periphery

Whether you’re celebrating the birth of Christ or not, there’s no mistaking that Christmas is near. My husband is the Creative Arts Director at The Orchard Community, and today’s message was fittingly on Advent and the Incarnation. After my husband led music, he slipped in the seat beside me so that we could listen to the sermon together. As part of his message, our lead pastor, Scott Hodge, did an art critique of sorts and (therefore) was showing examples of various artwork up on the screen as he spoke. I found his words on the Incarnation fascinating and intriguing and was intently listening and glancing up at the screen when suddenly my husband leaned over and said “You do see the artist painting on that large canvas at the far left side of the stage, right?”

“Huh?”

Despite the fact that we were sitting on the far left side of the room, the large canvas and artist had been completely out of my vision. It just took a slight turn of my head and some brief scanning for me to see the artist, Stephen Signa, actually an old friend of ours, painting this incredible abstract masterpiece:

Once Stephen and the canvas were within my sight, I was entranced by the creativity that was unfolding, but I also had to stifle my laughter. Not at the art, but at the sheer fact that this painting (yes, spotlight and all!) was taking place right in front of me for quite some time, and how I almost missed it entirely. Honestly, if Ben hadn’t pointed it out, he probably would have mentioned the painting after church and received a blank stare from me (definitely reminds me of the awesome RP analogy someone passed on to me that I’ve mentioned in a prior post– RP is seeing a tiny piece of paper across the room but tripping over an elephant on the way to pick it up!)

When the laughter in my head finally contained itself, a question popped in: how many paintings in the periphery of life do I miss? RP or not, how many do we all miss?

Turn your head slightly today. Scan your eyes till you see it. Allow someone to lean over and point it out to you. Seek beauty that isn’t obvious, and find wonder in a Season that may have become stale to the eyes after waiting in too many lines at Target or staring at too many “have-to-buys” on Amazon.

(and if you want to be intrigued anew about art or Advent, check out Scott Hodge’s 12/03/11 message on The Orchard’s podcast… it should be up sometime this week)

A Beautiful Hike

It might seem as though Joy and I are just going to ponder our upcoming treatment for the next couple weeks. But fear not, loyal readers – I’ve decided to post about something other than pre-treatment jitters. As part of my goal to focus on the present, I’ve been taking the time to do some of the things I really enjoy in life – baking, cooking, reading, yoga, and hiking. This last one might be surprising given A. I am a girly-girl, and B. I have RP. Despite these two facts, I still enjoy a good hike.

This weekend was full of sunny crisp fall weather – the kind that makes you want to put on a cozy scarf and head outdoors. My husband and I decided to take our 2 year-old daughter and little black shi tsu hiking on some nearby trails. We live up in the mountains where amazing hiking trails are literally in our backyard. This weekend, we decided to drive up Icicle Road and look for some new trails that we’ve never explored. Just the 5 minute drive up the Icicle made me feel relaxed yet energized by the array of colorful trees and clear blue sky.

We first stopped at an unmarked path, Torrey parked the car at the side of the road, and I quickly made note of the HUGE drop off just a few feet outside my passenger door. As we climbed the dirt path, weaving in and out of shrubbery and over-growth, my heart soared with the feeling that only good old-fashioned exercise and fresh mountain air can bring. I absolutely love hiking with Torrey (hubby) because he doesn’t hover over me and gives me the space I need to hike at the pace that is right for me. He typically leads the way, holding Cora’s hand, turning every once in a while to call out, “There’s a lot of branches hanging down up here, so watch your head”, or “Careful of this large log coming up”. He doesn’t hold my hand or watch skeptically to see if I’m going to miss a step. He fully trusts in my ability to hike using the aid of a walking stick he found for me in the woods. I refer to it as my “makeshift cane”.

Hiking up the trail is actually the easy part for me because there’s enough contrast for me to follow the trail. The way down is the most challenging part of the hike because my depth perception is not good, and it’s harder for me to find where I need to step next. This is the part of the hike that I use my walking stick as a cane – moving it quickly from side to side to “feel” my way down the trail. Torrey and Cora typically hike at a faster pace than me on the way down, but that doesn’t bother me. I actually kind of like it because once they get to the bottom, Torrey holds Cora up so that she can watch me hike down, encouraging me with lots of cuteness, “C’mon mama – good job, mama!”

After the first trail, we stopped to take a few roadside pics and then drove further up the road to a trail called “Fourth of July”, which seemed fitting for me because hiking gives me a nice sense of independence. This trail was a bit steeper than the first one, but the view at the top made the climb well worth it.

Encouragement

I am hand-writing this post. Joy gave me the idea as a way to rest my eyes from the computer before typing the final draft. I feel so old-fashioned and can hardly believe I still know cursive. It’s nice, and has really nothing to do with what I’m going to blog about, but just wanted to share my enjoyment in the dying art of penmanship.

As I sit here in my cozy backyard reflecting upon our first dozen posts and subsequent comments, I am surprised by some of the feedback. The responses from fellow VIPs (thanks for the snazzy acronym, sis) has been what we had hoped it would be and more. It’s the excitement and support from our friends and family that has surprised me a bit, which is not to say that I haven’t felt their support before. I guess receiving it all at once feels different. But what surprises me the most is how encouraged I feel just from knowing that my loved ones are taking time out of their busy lives to learn about RP.

Joy and I have spent so much time/energy talking to each other about RP over the years that we often haven’t realized how little our friends and family know about it. Prior to this blog, I had been of the mindset that if someone has questions or wants to know how I’m feeling about RP, they would approach me. And there are quite a few that have done so. But I’ve recently learned that not everyone feels they can openly talk about it – perhaps due to something I’ve said verbally or non-verbally. And that is disappointing to me. I want to be approachable, I want to be an open book. Sometimes that is easier said than done. Sometimes I feel so “exposed” when I talk about my vision. I feel as though I am revealing this broken piece of myself, But just because something is painful or uncomfortable to talk about doesn’t mean that it should be avoided altogether.

My hand is starting to cramp up, so I better wrap this up. If you have RP, you may be surprised to find that the more you share with friends and family, the more encouraged you feel. If you have a loved one with RP, find an appropriate time and place to approach them with your questions, concerns, words of encouragement, etc.

Taking an interest in what others are thinking and doing is often a much more powerful form of encouragement than praise – Robert Martin

The Narrow Tunnel of Compensation

I always felt I should possess some amazing talent to reconcile my missing rods and cones. Perhaps if I stood out as a musician, athlete, or scholar, I would not stand out for my lack of vision.

My parents took me to voice lessons with a nice, old nun in a dark, scary convent when I was eight. Yet “Go Tell It On The Mountain” practiced 50 times over did not improve my voice. I auditioned for the Young Naperville Singers in hopes of improving, but the director said she had heard kindergartners who could hold notes better than my third grade voice. That ended my hopes of becoming a female Stevie Wonder! I also tried my luck at cross-country, a fabulous sport where there is no unforeseen ball to smack you in the face. I was a good runner, but didn’t stand out as the one who won the races, and in my narrow vision of compensation I wanted to be that winner.

I think we’re taught this type of compensation in America. If you’re not right-brained, you better be left-brained: and if you’re not left brained, you sure as heck better be right. If you’re both, you’re blessed. If you’re neither, there’s something terribly wrong. If you’re lacking in looks, you better have a superbly gregarious personality. If you have no personality, you better at least be a genius. And on it goes.

I’ve come to learn that we should pay attention to our strengths, but we shouldn’t rely on them to block out our weaker areas. Our challenges will still be there, and we must deal with them. Our equation of wholeness is oftentimes flawed-a visual impairment is not a -50 and a great voice is not a +50. A visual impairment could be a +10 and a great voice a -25, depending on how they are used to shape and teach us and those around us.

“Normal”

Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted to be “normal”. I’ve wanted to just blend in and not make a spectacle of myself (which is pretty hard to do when you’re running into poles and such.) I’ve literally pictured what my life would look like if I was “normal”, and by normal, I of course mean perfectly-sighted. I would live out in the country– or maybe I wouldn’t– but I’d at least have the choice to live in the boonies because the “normal me” could drive. I’d have some job that required a lot of driving– like a pharmaceutical rep– or maybe I wouldn’t– but at least I’d be able to choose a career that involves driving. I’d play beach volleyball– or maybe I wouldn’t– but at least it’d be an option on a hot, summer day. You catch my drift; “normal me” has a lot of options.The funny thing is that most of my “normal me” fantasies don’t envision my life all that different from what it is now– I’d still be married to the same amazing man, have the same sweet children, the same supportive friends, live in a similar house with a similar career path, but I’d be a much “better me”. I’d look better (because I’d be able to do my makeup better if i could see it more clearly, of course!), act funnier and wittie (because I’d see funny things all around me), be a more-together and fun mom (wouldn’t lose a thing if I could see!), be more outgoing, athletic, involved…… I’d just be me with a little boost.Okay, so “normal me” is beginning to just sound like “perfect me”. Definitely not saying I would be perfect, but I really can’t help but think I’d be BETTER. I know that most people have their “thing” that makes them feel abnormal– the family they grew up in (probably half of America for that one), some physical trait that they don’t like about their face or body, some secret about their past, some act that they wish they hadn’t done or hadn’t been done to them…… there are probably very few people who would say they feel “normal”, whatever that word really even means.

But if so many people don’t fit into being “normal”, why do I sometimes feel like I am the only one who sticks out as “not normal”? And if I really do enjoy most aspects of my life, why do I daydream about changing it? Let me re-phrase that: why do WE daydream about changing it? Based on many of the RP chatrooms I’ve visited, I know that this is something we all struggle with, and I don’t think daydreaming about being perfectly sighted is necessarily unhealthy. But I do think that we should pay attention to how we view ourselves and the vocabulary that goes along with those views, especially the “n” word.