The Lilac Bush

Being an only child is hard. Your parents are learning on the job. There are no siblings to blame for things. Being born blind adds another dimension to the experience.

Still, it’s not as hard as you might think. When you’re a child, miracles are still possible. Imagination is still the key component in determining what you believe you can accomplish. Your world is not yet bounded by what others think you can, or cannot do.

My parents were firm believers in the power of education. As a result, I was sent to public school a year ahead of most other children. Thus, I was five when I entered first grade.

On that first day, sitting at my desk, overwhelmed by the sounds, smells and feel of the classroom, I heard one kid whisper to another, “His eyes look … weird.” That was the first time I realized that I was very different from everyone else.

That was also the day I met Michael. He became my best friend. He didn’t care whether I could see or not. At that age, like minds still rule the world of friendships.

Indeed, Michael and I met in that magical, truly platonic space of children. We liked the same jokes, appreciated the same TV programs … and we both loved riding bikes.

New parents and young children come at life from opposite ends. Often, the bridge spanning the gulf between them is hard for either to cross. For that reason, my bike still had training wheels on it. “Why don’t you keep practicing riding your bike,” my father said, trying to be encouraging. “I just want to make sure you’re ready, before the training wheels come off.”

Patience was not in my five-year-old’s toolbox. As Michael and I rode bikes together, I could hear him riding circles around me. Where his maneuvers were smooth and intricate, mine were lumbering and clumsy, because of the training wheels.

The house where I grew up had a big back yard. There was a paved driveway, with house and garage on either end. The rest of the yard was grassy, with trees and bushes scattered about. I knew, without having to see them, where each tree and bush was; I used my hearing to navigate around them—and every other object on the property—and ran through the yard with a child’s fearless abandon.

When riding my bike, with its training wheels on, I was restricted to the paved area of our driveway. When Michael came over to ride bikes with me, he often took off and rode across the grass, circling the garage and grassy section of our yard with east\e. My training wheels got hung up on the rougher terrain.

“I sure wish I didn’t have to have these training wheels,” I told Michael. “It must be great, to go that fast, and turn like you do …”

Michael’s answer convinced me to ditch the training wheels, at whatever cost. “It’s like flying,” he said, dreamily.

Still, my parents were reluctant. “We don’t want you to get hurt,” Dad said. “Just keep practicing; we’ll know when you’re ready.” But, I was ready NOW!

The next time Michael came over to ride bikes, I asked him if he knew how to take off my training wheels, and he said he did. So, I lied. “My parents said I could,” I told him. “But I don’t know how.”

All it took was a screwdriver. Michael detached the hated training wheels from my bike. Then, he helped me practice, running alongside and steadying me, teaching me how to turn, and balance.

Finally, I was ready to solo. “I’m doing it! I’m really doing it!” I cried, gleefully, just before I fell over. But, with each attempt, I grew more graceful, more sure of my balance.

By the time my Dad came home from work, I was ready to show him and Mom that I didn’t need training wheels anymore. At first, my father was mad; he almost took the bike away from me. But, my mother intervened.

I was still pretty wobbly, but I was determined; for me, there was no going back. I began shakily circling the driveway.

Growing daring, I decided to try riding in the grassy yard. Almost immediately, I lost control of the bike, and slammed right into the lilac bush that was blooming in the middle of the yard.

The bush had been there ever since I’d lived there. I hadn’t noticed it much; I’d navigated around it, just like I did with the elm tree, the swing set, and all the other things in my yard; by sound and by memory. Its large purple blooms never caught my attention. 

Now, after crashing into it, getting jabbed by the branches, and falling over, I burst into tears. I was afraid my father would put the damn training wheels back on. I was ashamed of having failed, in front of my parents.

Mom came rushing over, and picked me up. I cried, and cried, inconsolably. Finally, Mom picked a blooming lilac flower, and held it to my nose.

“Smell this, she said. When, in my childish rage and frustration, I made to crush the fragile flower in my fist, she admonished, “No, don’t crush it. Just smell it.”

Almost against my will, I inhaled, and the scent of lilac filled my nose. It impinged against my senses. It forced its way into my mind, which was tightly closed by frustration and fear.

I began to realize that the smell was … Beautiful. I didn’t know the word yet, but it was a pure beauty that was battering its way into my world. Then, I remembered all the days before, in which I had noticed the scent of lilacs, but never really paid attention to it.

In my child’s understanding, a new concept swept over me. This flower had been a thing of beauty, long before I had crashed into the bush with my bike. It had existed, independent of me. It had been beautiful, whether I noticed, or cared, or not. It would still be beautiful tomorrow. There was a world out there that went on, regardless of me, of my anger, or fear, or even of my joy. There was beauty in that world. I could notice it, or not; that choice was up to me.

I stopped crying, and let the scent of lilacs revolutionize my thinking about things. After a while, I turned to my parents. “Please don’t put the training wheels back on,” I said, calmly. They didn’t.

Eventually, I caught up to Michael, in bike-riding ability. Soon, I was swooping and spinning around the garage, through the yard, doing figure-eights around the trees. I was popping wheelies, and crying, “Look Mom, no hands!”

It’s been decades since I rode a bike. Even so, the lesson of the lilac bush has never left my mind.