Things No Longer There: A Memoir of Losing Sight and Finding Vision

Conclusion

231 Conclusion This book began with a memory of searching for a summer camp of my youth and has ended with a dramatic account of an intimate relationship that stays with me vividly still. In stories and small dramas, I have described changing geographic landscapes—a camp by a lake, a national seashore after a fire, a threatened pine tree in the yard behind mine, a trip down the California coast. I have evoked inner visions of fleeting lesbian landscapes—at a folk music festival, in a Mexican restaurant, in the classroom, and in bed. In several explorations of blindness and sight, I have described how my loss of eyesight has challenged me to see differently—initially when I first sensed I had a “fire” in my eyes, then as I learned to experience the world of a desert wildlife refuge in a new way, and finally as I recovered from a car accident and had to acknowledge, more than ever before, my increasing blindness. In my intimate portrait of my relationship with Anna, I have detailed a dramatic emotional liaison that marked my life and helped me to understand my needs. In all of these stories, I have focused on telling the truth and prizing inner sight. I have painted my canvases with much detail, seeking to capture often invisible realities. When I began writing Things No Longer There, I knew only that I was distressed by changes in outer landscapes that had once been special to me. In the end, I found that my inner visions were more important than my external losses. For me, this book has been an adventure in inner vision. When I think of the many stories here, I see an exhibit hall in a museum with pictures framed on the walls. These are pictures I can no longer see with my eyes, but when I look at them, dark and blurred in their frames, I see something vibrant and full of life, far more detailed than that portrait on the wall could ever be. The paintings in my mind are nuanced, full of gestures, in many colors and kinds of light, rich in emotional memories. There’s a crane taking flight, a bright orange-pink sunrise, a small red car, the face of my lover youthful forever, my black dog with very soft fur. I see again the sweep of a beach at Half Moon Bay and the teeming marsh at Pescadero , feel the chill of green jello served by a white-frocked woman at a Mormon wedding. I feel the lure of a woman older than me who welcomed me into an adobe home in the desert back when I needed her. I see an expansive sky and a mountain through a window in a house on a mesa, and I see myself driving away, but looking back. As I embark now on a new reality, walking off into a world of increasing blindness, I value all the more my internal imagery—the stories I tell myself, the inner humor, the detailed portraits I keep. I am finding my way without many of the visual clues I am used to, yet I am keeping my bearings, following my inner line of sight. I hope I will long remember lessons I have learned from this book about valuing inner visions, for these are the portraits that matter, these vibrant personal stories. I hope the reader, too, will value, all the more, the pictures on her inner walls. 232 conclusion  Bibliographic Notes ...