My wife and I have a common need.

Simplicity.

Her dementia makes chaos confusing. My blindness makes disarray frustrating. Fortunately, our small apartment limits the possibilities for disorder.

However, Order for my wife’s mind is putting all the silverware in one drawer. For me, order is putting the forks with the forks, spoons with spoons, etc.. I’ve accepted the daily task of doing this sorting by touch, relieved that I’m not searching for cutlery in the bathroom.

We have our own desks, sitting across the room from each other. I sit and write on my computer as she sits and works on her many coloring books. I make no attempt to organize any of her materials, although I sometimes try to help find her reading glasses. It amazes me how one moment five pairs of reading glasses have vanished and an hour later all are strewn across her desk. The saving grace in such situations is the knowledge that nothing can get too lost in our small home space. I say that knowing how distraught I’ve been frantically searching for a spatula only to finally find it in the refrigerator.

Simplicity also governs our activity schedule. We typically get up and go walking around town, varying our route depending on weather and mood. We return to eat breakfast and then head to our work zones. At some point, we’ll stop and exercise, break for lunch, and often take another walk before sunset. Interspersed between these daily events are a occasional visits by friends, trips to the library, shopping, or eating out.

compared to life before blindness, when a sudden impulse would propel us into a car and off to the mountains or ocean or some other getaway destination, life now is quite uneventful. Does this bother me?

Yes. One of my most difficult challenges is not being able to just take off when the mood strikes me. I’ve found no consoling rationale that comforts me here but eating my heart out for what can no longer be won’t do us any good. It is what it is.

I’ve always liked order and simplicity, but I’ve also enjoyed chaos and complexity. In the past, I loved the process of working through chaos to restore order, through creative effort and physical work. Sure, I can still do some of that with my writing projects but I’ve yet to find this as rewarding, as satisfying, as taking a plot of empty land and turning it into a vibrant garden.

In truth, as much as my wife and I need simplicity in order to have a functional life that minimizes frustration, there is one nagging trade off. Simplicity, however helpful it may be, can also be extremely boring.

Perhaps this is why the sudden desire to walk downtown for an ice cream cone has become a life changing event.

tio stib