Inside the Spin-Mosaic Studio

This man of mine is the picture of unflinching confidence. He can lecture in a college classroom stringing business terms together like pearls on a necklace until the mind is either dazzled or numb.  He has spoken to a room full of 1,000 people with not a drip of sweat or a blush in his cheek. He is also humble and backs away from glory.

Yet, this man of mine is tender towards a sapling, will brace it with straps and check on it by the hour. He loves his dog and she returns his love with the upturned eyes of fierce loyalty. Where his ankles go; she goes. Where he leads; I follow, too.

For many years, he worked in town while I taught Art at the rural school in Amish country 30 minutes north. Our days began together in the early morning. We both arrived back home together in the evening with a long gap of time and miles between.

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One day, while my 2nd grade Art class was happily art-ing, a shadowed face appeared behind the glass of my entrance door. It inched open. Children have a radar for such things. All eyes turned. A white balloon floated in followed by a humble, dazzling, articulate, unflinching, and tender man I knew well.

It was my birthday.

A room of a 1,000 people does not phase the coloring of his cheeks. A classroom of 2nd-graders? He was a fish out of water. I wanted to kiss away the sweet pink that crept across his "hello" expression that now held a familiar afternoon shadow of sandpapery whiskers. Not here...

He stayed just a few minutes as his meetings awaited. The children oohed and ahhed. They clearly were more adoring of this entertainment then when the traveling zoo visits the school auditorium.

The moment the door clicked shut, a gentle tug pulled at the pocket of my painting apron. Normally, the bonneted Amish girls were the picture of courtesy and proper restraint. Her sweet impulsive urgency caught me by surprise. "Please, can I take Annie over to touch it? She doesn't know what's going on."

I nodded quickly, "Give Annie a kiss, too!"

If a sweet little Amish girls eyes could get bigger, they just did. She stared at me blankly.

"The bag." I said. "The bag that is on the end of the string that the balloon is tied to sitting on my desk...there are Hershey kisses inside."  This still did not ring a bell for her (did the Amish not eat chocolate?).

I went on as though unphased. "Inside the bag are little chocolates wrapped in silvery paper. Open the bag. Give Annie a chocolate that she can taste. You can have one, too. Then, take the wrapper over to the window and let it shine in a streak of sun so she can see it."

Her quickened step and excited smile showed me she understood now. 

Annie was blind.

Behind her long wispy angel-blonde hair, her beautiful icey blue eyes saw only the brightest flashes of light. Her head often wavered towards the window or upwards to the bar-shaped bulbs. The class had just submerged in 3 minutes of giggles. Her head turned one way, then another, listening for clues within the happy chaos.

With shuffling feet, as was her way, Annie was lead by the hand of her thoughtful friend to my teacher's desk with an upturned chin to watch the bright bulbs pass overhead. Her frail hand was placed on the bag of kisses. 

There were many "sensitive accommodations" involved in counting a blind student among my roster numbers. But, Annie was not a number. She was not an accommodation. Annie was a child; a beautiful child created by God. She was loved.

When teaching art lessons, I tried to involve as many senses as I could dream up for Annie to participate: sight, sound, smell, taste, touch. Heightened sensory awareness has benefitted all my classes over the years.

Actually, it has changed me. Annie changed me.

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There are moments in life that come along. You may sense them unfolding, but have no idea of their lasting potency. I thank God I was witness to Annie meeting my balloon this day.

She was told in giggled whispers that there was a Birthday Balloon tied to the chocolate. As her fingers felt the bumpy package of kisses, her hand rested on the tought lacing of the tightly inflated helium balloon bobbing overhead.

"What's this?" Annie said.

"It's the balloon!" said her bonneted friend.

"No, it's a ribbon. Why is it pointing up?"

"It's tied to the helium mylar balloon." These were adjectives Annie did not know.

"Where is the balloon?"

"It's up." She pointed her finger to the sky, but then self-consciously realized Annie could not see it. She took Annie's hand and gently slid it up the neck of the ribbon. The balloon still bobbed out of reach.

Remember when your child took their first step, said their first word, or experienced a wonder for the first time? Annie had not experienced a helium balloon that floated on its own. Annie thought "helium" was yet another unknown color adjective that she could not make sense of.

Red? Blue? Yellow? Helium?

She flicked at the string with her forefinger like she was playing a guitar. Then, she balanced her fingertip against it's vertical sway and pushed. It gave way and snapped back in a sideways buoyancy. With a chocolate lump in her cheek, she was completely absorbed in playing with the string while her giggles filled the room like music.

To the children in my art class, the gift was a balloon tied to a bag of chocolate. To me, the gift was that my husband shifted his busy schedule to surprise me. To Annie, the gift was a playful ribbon with a mind of it's own.

Annie's young coach advised her to pinch the string between her thumb and her fingers, pull down and let go. Her blue eyes closed and her face went flat as the string popped back up. She was baffled and could make no sense of it. She seemed hesitant and nearly fearful to follow the string up any further than her elbows could reach. 

"Here, I will bring the balloon down to you." Her friend pulled the string down and grabbed the puckered plastic edges so it would not fly away. Annie reached forward as if petting a fierce dog. She poked at the balloon's tight bulging belly.

Finally, she spoke. "That's not a balloon. Balloons don't feel like that."

Annie had felt many balloons; but this was her first experience with helium.

She unfurled her palm and slid her hand around the edges. "It's still not a balloon." Annie was stubborn. She knew her senses would not fail her.

"It's a package. What's inside the package?"

Her friend could stay composed no longer. She clapped her hands and leaped, "Air!"

I still remember how her pastel skirt billowed in the bunny hop revealing the black lace boots underneath.

Annie did not give the expected response. Annie rarely did. She had a different perspective. Every time. That's why I loved Annie.

She spoke in a soft voice, grim with sincerity, but playful with innocence. "Someone wrapped up AIR in a round crinkly package and gave it as a gift? That's not a good gift..."

I thought she would tell me I needed jewelry or a cake instead. No, not Annie. She paused and winced as if the wind were blowing in her sightless eyes. Then, with a humble, dazzling, articulate, and unflinching confidence, she gave me the gift of perspective on my birthday.

"Someone wrapped up AIR in a round package and gave it as a gift? That's not a good gift...because the air belongs to everyone already."

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True, Annie. Very true. Some things belong to everyone. Air. Love. Laughter. Friendship. Art. Birthdays.