Creating in the crystal cave

With his paint brush and pencil in hand, the small child began his masterpiece.

"This will be the best tree ever!" he told his mother as he drew the outline of a tree.

First, the long, subtly curved lines of the trunk, with just enough roughness to represent the bark without making it look forced. He continued to draw more lines nearer the edges, giving the impression of a third dimension. Satisfied with the trunk and branches, he contemplated the leaves. They were what distinguished an artistic sketch of a tree from the meager drawing of a first-grader. The boy changed a simple shape into a complex fractal with many components working together to create a opaque and clear three dimensional leaves.

Leaning over his shoulder, his mother commented, "Your tree is very well done, Joshua, Why don't you give it some color?"

"I'm saving that for last," the boy answered while pursing his lips and pushing his paper aside to work on a new drawing.

This one would be a single leaf. First he drew a simple outline; adding shading and jagged edges to show depth. Most people consider a leaf to be an irrelevant thing which just happens to be part of a tree. His drawing made it seem like so much more.
Joshua was never quite able to tell his mother that he didn't know what she meant by color. All he ever saw was different shades of gray when he opened his crayons or colored pencils. Like any little boy who wishes to please his parent's, he was afraid they would somehow think him unworthy of their smiles for a job well done. Finally placing his pencil on the table, the boy pondered for a moment, and then made his decision. Picking up his colored pencils Josh looked at each color, his mind frozen in panic. Shrugging it off with a look to his mother, he checked to see if she was watching. Satisfied that she wasn't, he chose one at random and began to give his drawings color; red.

As Joshua grew older, it became evident that he had an amazing artistic gift. Although, whenever he added color he was criticized. So to play it safe, he only used a regular pencil. Always looking for new subjects to draw, he would gaze out the window, or sit in the park on a bench just watching the world go by. Sometimes Josh would watch his mother work in her garden. She would spend hours tending the delicate flowers, often commenting on how wonderful the different colors looked against the green of the grass or the blue of the sky. It must have been beautiful if it was that important to her. In his artist's mind, Joshua thought how large numbers of flowers were difficult to draw, but the tiny intricacies of one small flower were an artist's paradise. The world looked far better under a magnifying glass.

There was just one time that anything but detail stuck in his mind. He had been boating on a quiet lake with his father. The mountains towering above them must have been standing there for millions of years: longer then he could perceive. They had witnessed the beginning of the human race, the end of the dinosaurs, and the separation of the continents. Gazing up at the mountains, he had thought about something much more ancient than them; those luminescent flecks of light that brilliantly dotted the night sky. Stars were older than the earth itself, the subjects of so many dreams. As Joshua and his father lay side by side in the boat looking up at the stars that night, he remembered his thoughts of the day and asked, "Dad, are the stars older than God?"

With a puzzled look at the boy, his father replied, "I don't think so. Where did you get that Idea?"
"Its so quiet, I was just thinking about things," was the boys quick answer.
"I don't think anything is older than God," was his father's final reply, as he sat up and started to row to shore.

Joshua often thought about that night as he drew another masterpiece of detail. He was just another grain of salt dissolved in the sea of existence. That's one of the reasons why he loved detail. Taking comfort in the idea of these tiny objects looking upon him with the same sense of awe he had experienced on that lake, he shook himself out of his short-lived flashback, completing the finishing touches on his latest work, another crimson tree.

His parents were beginning to get worried. Their child was obviously old enough to draw a green tree, yet he continued to make them red. His only explanation being, That's the way they are. They took him to a psychologist who analyzed the paintings and asked few questions.

"Have you ever had his eyes checked?" the doctor questioned.

"Yes, but he's not near or far-sighted." His bewildered mother replied.

"No, no. I believe it is colorblindness and a very rare form at that. You say he rarely colors his art. Have him seen by an optometrist.

The parents thanked the psychologist, leaving with their confused and very frustrated child. He did not understand the concept of color; he wanted to learn. His parents tried to explain the concept to him, but he was still confused. They had lived with color their entire lives and taken it for granted, whereas he couldn't fathom the concept. His parents did not provide much help, so he looked on his own. Pulling out a dictionary, Joshua read to himself.

A sensation produced by rays of light of different wavelengths. It made color sound more unreachable then ever, even more distant from his grasp. That night he dreamed in black and white. Not only was his concept of color radically altered, but his parent's view of him was dramatically changed as well.

The next morning, his life seemed to turn upside down. He found his parents being particularly nice to him. His mother, with a fixed worried expression, constantly looked in his eyes. He'd been perfectly happy before, without this color nonsense. Apart from the odd comment about trees not being red, and him having no taste in color, he hadn't minded. Now his parents were making such a big deal out of his problem. He felt as if he had been missing out on something all his life. That night, Joshua found his old set of colored pencils, dusted them off, and started applying them in random ways to the paper. When he showed it to his mother, she cried. At that moment, he knew he'd never be normal in his parent's eyes again. It was very hard for a twelve year old boy to accept.

Years went by and the little boy grew to be a young man, leading his own life. Many times he would reflect on his childhood, remembering a life that was so grand while his problem went unnoticed. Everyone complimented his talent for art. Then everyone suddenly treated him as if he were different. For a year, Joshua had to wear a very unusual pair of glasses that were supposed to help. The only problem being that he had no idea if they were working. He didn't know what was supposed to happen.
As he sat staring unseeingly at the TV one day, something caught his eye. A news broadcast about a new eye treatment at a local University. The advertisement for the treatment depicted a man throwing out a pair of glasses similar to his own. Joshua couldn't believe it. All his life, he thought he would never understand color, and now he was finally given a chance to experience it. The very next day he made arrangements to get the treatment for himself.

He was told the procedure was a success when he woke up in the recovery room a few weeks later, feeling very disoriented. A needle was removed from his arm, and he opened his eyes. Panic nearly had him screaming. He couldn't see where the doctor's voice was coming from, or anything else for that matter. A wet bandage blocked his vision as a liquid seeped into his eyes. Worse then seeing black and white, Josh was effectively blind for the week the bandage had to remain on.

That week seemed to last a lifetime. People he had never seen before, just hands with voices, guided him around and helped him try to lead a normal life where he couldn't see a thing around him. Those seven days were unbearable. The constant feeling of the bandage stabbed his eyes like millions of needles poking him simultaneously.

Finally, the moment of truth came. His pain turned to anticipation. For the first time in his life, Josh was going to see color. He was finally going to understand. The doctor was talking to him, warning him of some things he needed to get used to, but he wasn't paying much attention. Slowly, the doctor began to loosen the bandage. It was lifted off, inch by inch, taking care not to rip or pull. His eyelids felt heavy, but the pressure was changing. He had been told to keep his eyes closed, and then very slowly open them. Saying good-bye to a life without color, he greeted a new milestone in his life as he opened his eyes.

Almost as soon as they opened, his eyes quickly shut from the sight. Color simply overwhelmed him. Most of the time, it was too much of an effort to focus. He just let his eyes stare blankly into space. Color was also a bit of a disappointment. His imagination had provided so much more. Josh's recent encounter with reality changed his perspective, causing his art to lose its appeal. His vision problem solved, the young man felt terribly isolated. His gift had fled him. Was it the right price to pay to now see the beauty of nature, rather then to express it himself?

After many years of self inflicted censor, Josh felt the need to draw again becoming stronger within him. Eventually he gave in to the need to create. After carefully preparing for the occasion, the man picked up his pencil and began to draw. He sat in a stark white room with a white washed table, his tablet and a set of drawing pencils at hand. He had taken to wearing only black, grays or white long ago. Although somewhat satisfied with the result of this experiment, he felt there must be more he could do to blot out the colors that had robbed him of his gift. After that first attempt, the man started experimenting with dark glasses, and even masks with no holes in the eyes. Josh realized that his vision was what distorted his art, making it unreal.


The acid was burning, but it did it's job quickly. Josh
felt the burning sensation and searing heat upon his eyes. He refused to wipe them,
he refused to clean them. Every day for a week, he poured the acid slowly on each
eyeball, until he could no longer see.

Letting his fingers do the work he knew they were capable of, he felt much more in tune with his art once again. Being blind was only a small price to pay for contentment. He passed his days in a darkened room creating visions of
light. Never once applying color to his shades of grays, whites and blacks.

The old man applied the finishing touches to his childhood masterpiece. A tree.
The living tree. A divine paradise in the depths of his mind: perfect. Smiling, he held his creation in his hands. He liked living through his art, sharing his dreams, or in this case, his past, through his art. Placing his painting on the seemingly endless wall of his works, he reflected back on his latest meaningful work of art, his life; an example of mankind's attempt to alter nature, and craft perfection, only to find that flawlessness is not always the ideal, and that the gifts you receive are not to be given up for what you desire, but are given to you, so that you might open your
hand and give back.