Sensing Helen

Have you ever played the game "would you rather. . ." with your senses? If you had to give up one of your senses, what would it be? When I've been plagued by noise, small sounds, Styrofoam squeaks or a drippy faucet, I give up my ears. If the world has been particularly smelly, men's cologne, a cigarette, fabric softener, the nose goes. When the tags on my shirts or sock boogers seem unbearable, touch wins. If I'm feeling morose and food goes bland, I sacrifice the tongue.

When I was a kid, my eldest sister became obsessed with blindness. Her own sight challenged by extreme myopia and a hatred for her horn-rimmed glasses, she spent most of her time in a blurred world and sought refuge in the clarity of her thoughts. She had what grown-ups used to call an "active imagination." Meaning she dreamed more often than she didn't. She lived in a land of make-believe and as her kid sister I tagged along whenever she would let me. When she was obsessed with witchcraft, I had to prick my finger and eat lemon peels in order to join her coven. We tried to conjure the spirits of dead relatives in seances, read Tarot cards, and asked the Ouija board about our future. But the blindness obsession seemed to last the longest. We spent hours wandering the backyard with our eyes closed, feeling the textures of plants. She'd run her fingers gently over my face to try to tell me from my other older sister. And she made us watch The Miracle Worker, the 1962 version with Patti Duke as Helen Keller and Anne Bancroft playing her teacher Anne Sullivan. All I remember of the film was the scene at the water pump, Helen's ah-ha moment. We felt a lot of spilling water in our hands after that, making awkward cries for "Wa."

My sister went on to teach herself braille, she even got a little braille punch, and she taught me how to read the tiny bumps with my finger tips. She taught me sign language, spelling words into my palm. I learned to cherish every sighted moment. Helen Keller and my sister, through their faulty eyes, taught me to really look at the world. So later on, when I'd play the "would you rather" game, I'd never offer up my sight. There is always something beautiful to look at. Even when I'm standing in the middle of a mall parking lot, surrounded by ugliness, I can look up at clouds in the sky or find a beautiful face in the crowd marching to buy something unnecessary. By playing at blindness, I gained stronger perception.

I'm a person often described by others as "sensitive." In another game--which Star Trek character would you be?--I'm always Deanna Troi, the ship's counselor and half-betazoid empath. I lead with emotions, feel too much, making me difficult to get along with. Or at least that's how it feels. So I wonder what it would be like not to be so hyper-sensitive, or to lack sensation. I joke from time to time with my husband that we need to build a sensory deprivation chamber for me. A nice quiet, dark place for me to go when the world is coming on too strong. Maybe I was just born this way, lacking adequate sensory filters to block out incoming signals. I'd like to be able to block out the itch on my arm right now that makes me pause every few moments to scratch. Or the hum of the computer fan, the cat crying in the other room, an airplane flying over head, my itchy scalp, the dog jumping at the back door, refrigerator knocking, a drip, somewhere a faucet drips. Sight is the only sense I can never get enough of. So today, I offer up my ears and I'm keeping the eyes.