tree

I was incredibly nearsighted for most of my first ten years, the result of an eye doctor who said, "Well, if he doesn't want to wear glasses, why make him?" and parents who didn't realize that I was more or less functionally blind.

I couldn't see a blackboard, I couldn't see a ball tossed at me. I couldn't see facial expressions. I couldn't recognize people twenty feet away, unless they had an unusual form or identifiable clothing. I couldn't see stars or mountains.

What did I miss out on? Well, if I'd been able to see better, I hope I would have learned how to read faces and social interactions at an earlier age. I might have had more than one or two friends. I might have grown up to be an influential world leader or a brilliant salesman, or I might have become a charismatic preacher. If I'd been able to hit or catch a ball when I was seven, I might have grown up to be a professional baseball player or top tennis pro.

I could have been different, and here is a deep sorrow -- a sense of loss for what I might have had -- that I seem unable to escape.

At the same time, had I had good eyesight, I would never have had that extraordinary moment as an eleven-year-old when I put on my first pair of glasses. After a couple of minutes, I said excitedly to my mother, "I can see every leaf on every tree!" Instead of broad smudges of Monet-like green, I saw hundreds of trees, each with thousands of individual leaves. I could see stores lined up down the street outside the optometrist's office, people with hats, dogs on leashes, cars, park benches, and policemen. I could see for the first time everything I take for granted now.

Had I been able to see, I would probably not have lived inside books, whose worlds were always clear to my imagination. I probably wouldn't have spent my childhood immersed in music, listening and playing, building a mental library of music history and relationships. I would have grown up a different person, and I don't regret that. No one who grew up with clear eyesight could really comprehend that moment of illumination -- and no one can take that from me.