I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were
stricken
blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life.
Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight,
silence would teach him the joys of sound.
Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see.
Recently I was visited by a very good friend, who had just returned
from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed.
“Nothing in particular,” she replied.
I might have been incredulous, had I not been accustomed to such responses,
for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.
How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods
and see nothing worthy of note?
I, who cannot see, find hundreds of things to interest me through mere
touch.
I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about
the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough, shaggy bark of a pine.
In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud,
the first sign of awakening Nature after the winter’s sleep.
I feel the delightful velvety texture of a flower, and discover its
remarkable convolutions;
and something of the nature is revealed to me.
Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree
and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song.
I am delighted to have the cool waters of a brook rush through my open
fingers.
To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than
the most luxurious Persian rug.
To me the pageant of season is a thrilling and unending drama,
the action of which streams through my finger tips.
At time my heart cries out with longing to see all these things.
If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch,
how much more beauty must be revealed by sight.
Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little.
The panorama of color and action which fills the world is taken for granted.
It is human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which we have
and to long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that,
in the world of light, the gift of sight is used only as mere convenience
rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.
If I were the president of a university, I should establish a compulsory
course in how to use your eyes.
The professor would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their
lives by really seeing
what passes unnoticed before them.
He would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.
