The
other day I was putting together a piece where for one segment,
I was talking about moving around in a darkened house. And it
occurred to me that for many people, what some consider challenges
around the house are for others an everyday reality.
For
people that are blind, or using a wheelchair, the idea of what
many folks would consider normal movement isn’t that normal. Turn
out the lights, and I slow right down, more or less believing
I’m about to smash my face into a wall and honestly surprised
if I find my way through the door I was aiming for. About five
years ago, I needed to use crutches for an extended period of
time, and we’ll just say it was not a great experience.
As
I kicked around the idea, it became even more evident that my
ideas of normal are not necessarily even close to your ideas.
Consider
a kitchen.
If
I asked you to find a spoon in my kitchen, you probably would
be able to handle it pretty quickly. But, likely without thought,
you cheated. You unconsciously and immediately decided we keep
spoons in a drawer, and began with those. What if I asked you
to find a plate or a coffee mug? Might take a few extra seconds.
And if we move into cutting boards, lids for frying pans, or perhaps
a mandoline, chances are good you wouldn’t even start looking
before asking me where it is.
What
makes sense to me as a perfect spot for a drawer filled with forks
and knives isn’t necessarily the perfect spot for you. (For a
full admission, I also have no clue where our mandoline is. Whenever
I could use it, I often forget it completely as an option or decide
it will be faster to just slice things another way rather than
to look for it.)
Normal
is whatever you believe is comfortable and obvious. Normal is
the way things should be. And normal for one person is not necessarily
even close to what normal is for someone else.
If
you live in Arizona, come to the northeast, and think you are
going to find quality salsa, you are going to be disappointed.
Great salsa is normal in Arizona. It’s not that normal in the
northeast. (And I am very sorry that’s true. Because if you are
in such a situation, you are going to be saddened by what many
think qualifies simply as good salsa in the northeast.)
Outside
in my driveway, the cars are facing toward the road. They don’t
face that way all year. But it’s winter. For one thing, because
of where the sun rises, facing them in that direction points them
toward sun and helps get the snow and frost melted off the windshield.
And for another, it’s far easier moving across snow in drive than
it is in reverse. As October arrives, it’s just the natural thing
to begin backing into the driveway. But if I lived in Florida,
I’d likely never consider doing it.
Normal
is, at its most basic level, how you do things when you don’t
think about doing them.
When
I was younger, I enjoyed a lot of the video games for sports.
Today, I can barely keep up. The controllers have multiple sticks,
nobs and buttons. It makes the games more realistic, and the options
for interaction more authentic, and it also drives me wild. Which
darn button do I push to pass the ball? Which one to switch the
player I’m controlling on defense? (Good luck. It’s thrills like
this that led to the Wii exploding in popularity.)
But
more to the point, when I was younger the buttons seemed far more
intuitive. I recall playing a baseball game with a friend for
the first time. I had a man on first and wanted to try to steal
second base. I guessed, hit a button that seemed like the obvious
choice, and the runner took off. That was a great game.
It’s
not that obvious is preferred. But like the search for a spoon,
obvious can be a good place to start. And, even more importantly,
having the understanding and patience to deal with the idea that
your version of obvious isn’t the same as another person’s is
a great way to bring people together.
Embrace
your normal. Cherish your normal. (And if you happen to spot a
fondue set in one of the cabinets, would you let me know where
it is? Thanks.)