It’s amazing how the mind works or doesn’t.

I worked fast and furious the whole spring of 2024 to finish editing and publishing the 2nd Edition of Look at That!,** which is available now on Amazon as an eBook, a paperback and as a gorgeous hardcover. That would have been enough work as it was. But on April 11th I had a medical surprise that almost derailed the creation of this book forever.

As many of you may know (especially those of you who have read my artist’s memoir, Double Take), I’ve had 49 years’ experience living with an eye disease that slowly but surely has robbed me of vision. First in one eye and now slowly in the other eye.

On April 11th, I woke up and even before I put my glasses on, I knew something was wrong. There was a new fuzzy area right in the center of the vision in my one functional eye, the area that I use to read, write, sketch, see detail, and enjoy all my favorite things in life. Suddenly there was a fog over all of it with very few spots of clarity. I knew to take seriously any changes in my vision, so I called my retinal specialist immediately and was able to get an appointment the next morning. That’s when I heard the grim news that I now have a third eye condition that will gang up with the other two to rob me of my remaining sight in the not-too-distant future.

Imagine what it’s like to learn it’s “last call” for your eyesight.

There’s no way of knowing how much time is left, but guaranteed, there is no time to waste. I panicked, understandably.  Suddenly I had to do a lot of scrambling. Although I was already working a little with blind services here in New Hampshire, I needed to escalate delivery of those services. Plus, as a single woman, I had to figure out who I could trust to help me sort through important legal and financial documents, confirm where my most recent will, power of attorney, and medical / financial records are, and to help me decide where all of those things should be stored, exactly, in case of an emergency.

Every waking moment we all use eyesight to navigate life. The learning curve to navigate with seriously limited vision or no vision is daunting. I was overwhelmed for weeks.

But that’s not what this blog post is about, oddly enough. This post is about unexpected resilience.

Many years ago, a very wise friend of mine smiled and said, “Bobbie, remember: Everything’s temporary. And sometimes temporary lasts a really, really long time.”

The “temporary” she was referring to isn’t the medical condition, because sometimes those are both chronic as well as degenerative. The “temporary,” fluid part is the narrative we create around our situation, not the situation itself. Yes, of course, it’s natural to be reactive to something right when it happens. But what I’ve come to learn is that my rock-solid perspective on anything is nowhere near as rock-solid as it appears at times.

For example, I knew my drawing and sketching life, my reason for living, was almost over. Losing one’s eyesight bit by bit can feel like slow torture for anybody, but if you have crafted your life around the enjoyment of fine visual acuity, and you have taught art and even written books about it, the grief of vision loss feels like imminent death, your own death. This is no exaggeration.

Luckily, that’s where exquisitely intuitive friends can help.

The backstory: Every Tuesday from 11am-1pm for a few years now, I have met with three watercolor artist friends at a local café for a weekly artistic show’n’tell and work session. Using reference photos, we spend the second hour drawing and “watercoloring” in our sketchbooks. We set the bar pretty low; after all, we’re in a cafe with limited time. Nevertheless we are there to paint together and learn from each other.  All four of us know that making a habit of sketching, with or without your friends around you, is deeply rewarding. It’s grounding. It’s celebratory. It’s downright fun.

Back to my story: For the first few weeks after the April 11^th retinal bleed, I cautiously trudged over to the cafe with my sketchbook and art supplies to meet up with my friends, but I couldn’t crack open my sketchbook. We spent a lot of time talking and my three friends were attentive listeners, very supportive. They knew I was grieving and frightened, a nasty combination of strong emotions. And they were wise enough to know I just needed to be where I was. I didn’t need any advice. I didn’t need any guidance. I just needed to be in their company. Weeks passed. No improvement in mood or spirit.

Then one morning when home alone, I pulled out my watercolor palette and just sprayed some water on it. I figured I still had enough eyesight to do that.

Thanks to those powerful droplets of water, the colors in the palette soon morphed from a dull matte finish…

… to a beautiful glossy sheen.

I fetched a cup of water, pulled out a watercolor brush and a piece of scrap paper, and I began to play. Just play. I wasn’t drawing, I wasn’t painting. There were no images. I just wanted to play in the juicy paint pans. No one was watching, (not even my inner critic!), so I was free to explore.

It wasn’t about learning, “What can I still do?”

It was about discovering if there was even a shred of joy left.

There was no way I was going to push myself, force it, do anything to strive to continue doing visual art in any form because striving has always been the opposite of my artistic motivation. When I sketch, it’s always been because I’m drawn to it, not because I’m shoving myself. This approach is at the very heart of my first and third books.**

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, my soul morphed from, “Yeah but my central vision is still mostly gone” to, “Yes and I can still see enough to play with my watercolors.” And now, forgive the profanity, but I must share a cartoon that I created decades ago. Still my all time favorite.

Even when life’s a roller coaster, we each come equipped with a gentle internal gyroscope that eventually restores our balance with no help from us.

It is the self-parking car inside us that works best when we lift our hands from the wheel. It is endlessly patient as we thrash about. It simply waits for us to get exhausted enough to let go.

I’ve learned this lesson time and again through drawing and painting. When I’m yelling at my sketchbook because it’s not doing what I want it to do, I am blocking myself off from the experiences this sketchbook paper is freely offering.

When I’m aggravated that I have the wrong watercolor brush and it’s not doing what I want it to do, I’m innocently overlooking the fact that this brush has a lot to teach me. I just need to become teachable in order to learn.

Never in a million years would I have chosen progressive blindness as the overall theme of my life, but here it is and here I am. I have innocently wasted years overwhelmed by anger, resentment, and grief, simply because I saw no alternative. No blame for anyone of course, we all do this as we ride the roller coaster. No one is exempt.

But even now, I can still live by my guiding light motto: “I want to see what I can see while I can see.” I needn’t run, nor forfeit this passion until my last glimmer of light.

Senses are wonderful things, but for me, they are not interchangeable. I’m still a landscape girl, as I said on page 12 of the new 2^nd Edition of Look at That! Like most people, I appreciate sound and taste and texture and scents. I love music, good food, and the scent of rose geranium leaves. But still, even today, I continue to ADORE eyesight. And for just a while longer, I can still see enough to navigate a beautiful life, one stunning “Look-At-That!”  moment at a time.

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** If you decide you would like to purchase a copy of the new Second Edition, be sure to look for the version with the green stripe down the left side of the cover, and the words “SECOND EDITION” in the blue cloud at the top of the cover. I will be “unpublishing” the first version sometime this summer, but for now, it can be a bit confusing.

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