Around the time I was four years old, my parents noticed that my left eye was listing. Whether inward or outward, I'm not certain. I do remember picking out glasses at the optometrist's office. I still own them!! But glasses alone can't fix a lazy eye, and I was too young for surgery. So, I wore a patch. A giant gauze thing taped over my good eye, meant to force the lazy eye to strengthen. I'm sure I endured plenty of ridicule and villainy at my pre-K. However, my uncanny knack for blocking out unpleasant experiences prevents me from recalling them. Whatever the kids at Mantua Elementary School did/said, the patch paid off.
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| All better, right? [those are the actual glasses I wore when I was 4!!] |
These days, I have a good eye. Eyes. Whatever. Part of what develops in the course of pursuing a craft is the ability to sight measurements and proportion. Last fall I made a trip down to North Carolina to learn from Don Etherington. At one point he asked me to paste the edge of an end paper to an 1/8th of an inch. In his best Michael Cain voice he said, "And I do mean an 1/8th of an inch!". He wouldn't let me use a ruler most of the time, either. He stressed the importance of training the eye to see measurements. I was a bit off that day, I'll admit, but my time at the bindery has given me ample practice.
It isn't just a neat trick. I think it's as valuable as hand skill for anyone practicing a craft. Not to say there's anything wrong with rulers, they're a fine tool. But the greatest tools are not in the tool box.
Whereas a lazy eye could have presented a significant hindrance to my endeavors, my other "defect" may actually be a boon. When I was maybe seven, maybe eight, I began executing complicated rituals in my room before bedtime. Switches had to be in a particular configuration, as did furniture, and then there were the spells. Superstitious combinations of words and finger tapping had to be performed just so in order to prevent certain calamity to me and my family. Over the next sixteen years, my obsessions and compulsions jumped all over the spectrum--some more destructive than others.
I don't wonder why I've struggled with OCD. It runs in my family, though I didn't know it until I was grown and no one else has bothered to get a diagnosis. These days, i don't count my steps or obsess over symmetry. The urge is still there, it's just a much quieter voice.
It occurred to me that there may be a valid, genetic reason for the disorder. I inherited it from my mother's Nordic ancestors. So my theory goes like this: If one wasn't able to stay intently focused on repetitive, often tedious tasks, those long, shut-in winters might have led to psychosis. So maybe the trait developed over hundreds of years of snowy isolation in shuttered stone dwellings on the fjords. Who knows?
What I do know is that it also enables me to maintain a fixed intensity on a task. Sort of like the opposite of ADD. It's most evident when I'm manually engaged. Tiny stitches, carving groove by groove, fold after fold--I become mechanized; a will of production. The devil, for me, is not in the details. He waits for my hands to idle.
It isn't just a neat trick. I think it's as valuable as hand skill for anyone practicing a craft. Not to say there's anything wrong with rulers, they're a fine tool. But the greatest tools are not in the tool box.
Whereas a lazy eye could have presented a significant hindrance to my endeavors, my other "defect" may actually be a boon. When I was maybe seven, maybe eight, I began executing complicated rituals in my room before bedtime. Switches had to be in a particular configuration, as did furniture, and then there were the spells. Superstitious combinations of words and finger tapping had to be performed just so in order to prevent certain calamity to me and my family. Over the next sixteen years, my obsessions and compulsions jumped all over the spectrum--some more destructive than others.
I don't wonder why I've struggled with OCD. It runs in my family, though I didn't know it until I was grown and no one else has bothered to get a diagnosis. These days, i don't count my steps or obsess over symmetry. The urge is still there, it's just a much quieter voice.
It occurred to me that there may be a valid, genetic reason for the disorder. I inherited it from my mother's Nordic ancestors. So my theory goes like this: If one wasn't able to stay intently focused on repetitive, often tedious tasks, those long, shut-in winters might have led to psychosis. So maybe the trait developed over hundreds of years of snowy isolation in shuttered stone dwellings on the fjords. Who knows?
What I do know is that it also enables me to maintain a fixed intensity on a task. Sort of like the opposite of ADD. It's most evident when I'm manually engaged. Tiny stitches, carving groove by groove, fold after fold--I become mechanized; a will of production. The devil, for me, is not in the details. He waits for my hands to idle.
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