Tools of the blind tradie

Part 5 - The art of being blind

“Kindness is a language which the blind can see and the deaf can hear.”

Anon

In this series so far, I have written about the need for order and organisation, perceiving colour, hearing people’s voice signatures and touching everything in order to feel the world around me. I have shared the way my physical senses work overtime allowing me to fit into sighted circles, revealing the little tricks I have crafted along the journey towards blindness.

Among my collection of tools are four qualities that I recommend to any person embarking on the profession of blind artisan. No matter what the obstacle ahead, I can guarantee from personal experience four attributes that will help you meet any challenge – and come out smiling! The next four posts will explore each of these qualities in detail (I am not giving away all my secrets at once).

“I have never had clarity. What I have always had is trust.”

Mother Teresa

 TRUST – whenever I have trusted in the kindness of others, even total strangers I meet on the street, something amazing happens. Seeing my white cane (or guide dog), people become extremely helpful. Suddenly, I am not a stranger in the street, a possible threat to their safety, but, rather, a person they feel they can trust. So they reach out with compassion to inquire if they can assist me.

Trust is letting go of control. Young children do this very well – they trust every need will be taken care of, they trust when they launch into thin air that their parents will catch them, or that the sand beneath their feet is soft enough to take their fall.

But letting go is one of the hardest things for sighted adults to do. I have observed this defiant reluctance when presenting talks and getting my students to walk around in pairs with a blindfold. Panic strikes in dubious minds, limbs freeze in fear. The concept of allowing another person to control their mobility, even if for only five minutes, has my entire class walking like zombies.

Being a typical Taurean by nature, my family will tell you how infuriating I can be when my stubbornness to do something for myself makes them feel powerless to help. But there are times when I trust myself to do a task even if it is slower or seems ridiculous, and then there are times when I have to accept my visual limitations and let go of controlling the desired outcome. 

Then, the obstacle, whether it be a physical one or a mental one, becomes a challenge we meet together – the letting go enables a sense of achievement for both of us.

So, with the many obstacles I face as a vision-impaired person, to trust another’s judgement on my behalf and trust their capacity to carry out my desire brings a genuine connection to another kind-hearted soul – even if I have never met them before.

I trust I will be handed the correct change when paying for something over the counter. I trust someone will guide me to the front of a queue and hand me a numbered ticket. I trust my young child knows enough about oncoming traffic to tell us when it is safe to cross a road. I trust the taxi driver won’t take me the long way around to my destination in order to boost the fare. I trust the person on the train has told me approaching station's mane correctly: and I trust the kind voice of a stranger offering to guide me to the lift in a dark and secluded building is being true to his word.

When one can’t rely on sight, one learns to rely on trust.

Try Paw-Wheel Driving

 

If you find trusting another human being for safe mobility difficult, consider the trust required when working with a guide dog. To any onlooker, the interaction of a handler and their well trained dog can appear casual and confident. The reality for me during my first weeks of training with Nev in 2000 was a major lesson in trust and good humour. Praise him and don’t panic was my motto. 

So hold on – and come with us as we relive that first public walk: and let Nev take us paw-wheel driving, destination Unknown.

The big day came when we climbed aboard the Guide Dog minibus. Five obedient dogs, five anxious handlers and two confident trainers all set off for a secret destination to carry out our first ‘real’ walk in public. A burst of giggles then silence swept through the bus, our loyal dogs quietly lying by our feet. The engine whirred down a few gears to a complete halt and the trainers briefed us on what was expected next.

I felt like someone waiting in the back of a sky divers’ plane about to jump out into the vast unknown. The sliding door opened and a trainer announced the first ‘victim’.

“Jonathon.” Our trainer spoke confidently. Jonathon would be fine, he was the pro in our group training with his second guide dog.

I sat back into the vinyl seat, my hands straying over Nev’s coat. My canine companion looked up at me as my trembling fingers toyed with his velvety ears like holding onto a comforting teddy bear. A few minutes later, the sliding door opened again.

“Are you ready, Maribel and Nev.”

Nev sprang to his feet, bouncing towards the door as he guided me down the two steps. Once on the footpath, I tried to organise my guide dog to take up position on my left. Nev fidgeted as I untangled the leash from around his front legs, my fingers fumbling with twisted leather, with a hot doggy-tongue licking my flushed ear.

“Ready?” Peter asked. Nev and I continued in a nervous dance on the pavement. “Sometime today would be good,” he added, arms crossed, amused by our comic capers. I took a deep breath and nodded. This was it.

My task was to walk with my guide dog through the local shops of Fairfield to the end of High Street without colliding with any objects along the way. Peter would follow behind at a distance in case we got into any unexpected difficulties.

Moment of truth – trusting my guide dog completely

 

“Forward, Nev, find the way.”

Nev lunged forward skipping first gear. I felt his body swerve to the left and my feet followed suit. We cruised past curious stares and a hushed silence fell on the street. A rush of heat burned into my palms trying to keep a firm but calm grip on the harness as we stayed in perfect step in the spotlight of our first public performance.

Swerving this way and that, we glided as one past every obstacle on the street.

“Good boy. Find the way.” I encouraged my pilot keeping verbal commands clear. A thin ripple of a smile broke free on my tense face. Everything seemed lighter, easier, as I stayed close on the heels of my guide dog.

An unexpected feeling of playfulness put a lighter spring in my step, Nev and I continued our effortless flight down the street. He really knew what he was doing.

Nev walked a few inches ahead, my shoulders letting go of tension as I adjusted my moves to follow his. He showed such grace and skill! Emotions swelled within me as I could hardly believe we were trotting together in effortless harmony and passing with flying colours!

As Nev pulled up by the end of the kerb, he threw me a glance as if to say, ‘We’re here.’ I bent down on one knee, buried my quivering lips into his soft coat and burst into tears, whispering, “My dear Nev. We did it.”

Peter sprinted to our side. “What happened?” 

I stood up slowly, wiping away the moisture from my eyes,

“Nothing.”

“Why are you crying then?” Peter sounded completely confused.

Overwhelmed, I spluttered, “I can’t believe Nev just did all that for me. I’m so proud of him.”

My trainer’s voice lightened. “Oh, good grief, Maribel, is that all?” He touched my shoulder and laughed, “I told you to trust him. He’s your guide dog, that’s what he’s trained to do.”

“Trust is letting go of needing to know all the details before you open your heart”

Anon

Next post: Discover another key and unlock the tool kit of the blind tradie...

 © 2013 Maribel Steel

A Fabric Owl and a Broody Dragon

I often wonder what became of the broody dragon who didn’t seem to like her job as our art teacher in secondary college. A shame really – we were a lively lot of girls keen to follow our dreams as budding artists but Miss Bongiorno’s art classes  only inspired dread.

Three decades later, I read the guidelines for a short story competition where entrants were invited to write a brief memoir, a reminiscence of their early life and so, I submitted a story about the incident in the art room.

I was thrilled to learn that my story, His Emerald Eyes won equal first place with ten other writers and was published in Fifty Plus News last December.

 *

Short Story Competition Winners’ Series

His emerald eyes

 At fifteen, I couldn’t wait for the new school year to begin. It was art class I pined for, the creative space where fellow alchemists played with facets of light, and the colour spectrum to create magic upon paper or canvas. The art studio that spilled over with quirky pieces of art.

But this year, we had a temperamental art teacher – Miss Bongiorno. Welcome to the new art class, ruled by her critical tongue and evil eye. Nothing seemed to please her, least of all, our art projects. I often sat by the bay window, carrying out her orders as quietly as possible, avoiding her stares. Students whisper around me, wondering whether she could be this scarey at home. Maybe she was having relationship problems – did she even have a boyfriend? Maybe she was a lesbian? God help her, or him. Empathy swirls around our gossipy group for Miss Bongiorno’s mystery lover as none of us dare to make eye contact with the broody dragon tapping her ghostly-white claws on the teacher’s desk.

On one particular day, we had been commanded to bring our sewing project to class for marking. It was a matter of do it or brave Miss Bongiorno’s detention. Sewing with thin needle and thread had become a difficult task for me: I had been prescribed glasses as sight was fading rapidly due to a mystery eye disease. At home, it was natural for Mum to show me how to blanket stitch the emerald eyes of my felt-toy because she was a gifted seamstress. Without mum’s help to thread fine needles and secure cottons, I would not have completed my art assignment in time.

Perched proudly on Miss Bongiorno’s scratched mahogany desk, sits my fabric owl, among the menagerie of other students’ toys. Dipping a camel-hair brush into acrylic paints on the newspaper-covered table, I feel relieved to have met her deadline and focus on my new painting.

‘She’s looking at your owl,’ tugs my friend in a warning whisper. Sudden panic.

‘Come here please.’ Miss Bongiorno’s stern voice penetrates my fearful heart. The class shifts with restless interest. I place the long brush to one side, wipe my hands on an old rag, mouth uncomfortably dry. Coming out into the light,  I step towards the stirring dragon. 

'Did you sew this owl by yourself?' She speaks in a low tone, rising a little taller in her gnarled chair: eyes as green as ivy. Scrambled thoughts bubble in the intense heat rising from her inquiry. Stomach juices churn. My legs feel like they are about to crumble from underneath me. Standing uncomfortably close to her chair, my hands cannot help but fidget with a crease in my white art smock. I stare just above her gaze, fixing upon her long blonde fringe. I notice as if for the first time, her hair obscures thin rimmed-glasses and an unattractively narrow nose. What should I say? Surely she knows I am having trouble seeing these days? She too wears glasses, she of all people will understand.

'No, Miss Bongiorno. My mother helped me.’

‘R-e-a-l-l-y.’ Her face burns bright. Miss Bongiorno twists around in her chair, holding my soft toy in a tight grip, and as if there is an invisible net hanging from the ceiling, she hurls him high across the room, hissing,

‘Unpick it NOW. I’m not here to mark your mother’s work. Sit in that corner and do it again by yourself!’

I feel a deep tremor of shame. Fighting back needles of tears, I dash away to rescue the crumpled owl lying face downwards on the grey cement, his sweet orange beak bent and his stuffed wings split at the seams. I want to flee from her sight, to never, ever return, to fly home with my owl and ask mum to mend my broken heart, his broken wings. But instead, I do as commanded, holding the owl close to my chest, as if this will stop me from falling apart. In the darkest of corners, I let tears flow while fingertips glide over the soft toy, tracing the cotton stiches that outline his emerald eyes and I wait. I cannot unstitch my mother’s love. I wait for the sound of the school bell to herald home time.



‘The mother's heart is the child's school-room.’

Henry Ward Beecher


©2013 Maribel Steel

Love and Kindness

‘The best part of life is not just surviving,
 but thriving with passion and compassion
and humor and style and generosity and kindness.’

Maya Angelou

I cannot give enough thanks for the kindness and generosity shown to me by all who attended my book launch last Thursday (18th April 2013) – with a special heartfelt thanks to the wonderful ladies at The Victorian Women’s Trust – who have style and flair and know how to turn the dreams of women into a collaborative reality!

Mary Crooks, Executive Director of VWT, initially embraced the sentiments and genuinely loved the book design of my printed family heirloom when she first held a copy in her warm, supportive hands.

Having worked with Mary on a couple of projects since 2009, when I received her invitation, ‘let’s talk’, in response to an idea I had brought to her round table, she has always delighted me by supporting that venture with ‘let’s do it!’

On the day I brought in a copy of My Mother’s Harvest, hot off the press from the first run of books in early December 2012, she didn’t waste a moment in including Dur-e Dara OAM ( restauranteur and VWT Director)  into our conversation with an unexpected gesture to promote the book for Mother’s Day.

As I sat quietly at the table, looking from one woman to the other as if watching a game of table tennis, these two wonderful women astonished me by placing a large order of books as personal gifts for Christmas. An endorsement of my book in its humble beginnings could not have come any better than that.

The day before my book launch I spoke with Dur-e and was amazed by how much she had identified her own life with mine:  through the craft of storytelling, we understood each other as creative women supporting parallel journeys.

No frittatas, please, we’re Spanish

As I sipped champagne chatting to a mixture of book lovers and my fan club of close friends, the cosy room in the offices of the VWT in the heart of Melbourne swelled to a gathering of 40 people. Oblivious to the real preparations going on behind the scenes like any true princess, I too enjoyed the small triangular wedges of homemade Spanish Omelette adorning a red platter and other treats being offered to the guests.

Earlier in the day, I had cooked two Tortillas to celebrate the launch of my family ‘cookbook’ and then discovered that my father had also prepared an extra one for the occasion (in true competitive family spirit). He sent me an email that read:

‘Done! No human beings were intentionally harmed in the making of this Tortilla Española. It is fervently hoped that the same will apply to those who volunteer to eat small portions of it. But we offer no guarantees. Recipe by Piluca and Maribel, slightly modified by Brian, but no turmeric this time at the request of the whole family, who are gastronomic wimps.

1 hr 45 mins from Go to Whoa. Note: anyone who claims to produce one of these in 30- 40 minutes is either misguided or Gordon bloody Ramsey. That is a Frittata.’

A captive audience

Dur-e gave a heart-warming introduction about my family, the food that nurtured three generations and a glowing endorsement of the stories that made me feel even more acutely that the effort in producing this book had all been worth while.

Invited to say a few words...and after having thanked Bee Williamson, friend and book designer, my ‘helper elves’ (father, son and wholly Harry), I found myself telling my life story! Whoops – apologies to those who thought it was going to be an early night and my gratitude to those loyal ‘fans’ who were still smiling at the end of my unprepared speech (or maybe the smiles were born out of sheer relief that I had finished).

Well – not quite.

I invited my partner, Harry, to read an excerpt from the book, and he entertain the group with his theatrical interpretation of my parents’ wallpapering antics.

Did someone mention parents?

Perfect timing. My father, Brian, seemed to jet-propel himself clear of his seat to join me ‘on stage’ to deliver his final words of congratulations and stole the show. Fidgeting with a package of some sort, he grinned with great triumph, revealing THE surprise of the evening and said,

‘Maribel. This is your life. Enjoy!’

Astonished, amazed and quite floored, I opened the package he presented and unwrapped an album with family photos, letters and snippets from our past, as a tribute to ‘My daughter’s harvest’.

Thank you, dad – sneaky, but what a brilliant way to end such a perfect book launch.

 

 

 

Mum has the final words

In the glow of the following morning, as an autumn sunshine lit the pages of the photo album, a hand-written letter from my mother beckoned my attention. Pulling it from one of the clear pockets of the album, I unfolded it carefully and began to scan her letter, dated a fortnight before she passed away in 1978.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I slowly read my mother’s loving words, the moisture clogging up the magnifying glass, feeling caught in a surreal moment of time. Here I was, thirty-five years later, receiving my mother’s glowing praise as she mustered the last of her strength to write to her seventeen year old daughter, 12,000 miles away from home. I had sent her a bouquet of bright Interflora flowers and so she put pen to paper upon this treasured airmail letter.

The final three words that my mother ever wrote to me danced on the page before my eyes. Alive and full of inspiration, they are now part of the working title for my next collection of writings... ‘millions of kisses’.

‘How lovely to think that no one need wait a moment.

We can start now, start slowly, changing the world.

How lovely that everyone, great and small,

can make a contribution toward introducing justice straightaway.

And you can always, always give something, even if it is only kindness.’

Anne Frank (1929-1945)

for further interest check out these clips we did with VWT

Love and Justice - a women's anthem by Kavisha

http://youtu.be/6HpCmdLRuF8

Tarka – Precious Music, Precious Water

http://youtu.be/KdKlEHLqmmM

Bee Williamson  - Book and Web Designer

http://www.hive.id.au



 © 2013  Maribel Steel

First came the seeds...now comes My Mother’s Harvest

BOOKLAUNCH - April 18th 2013

Next comes the movie contract...the mobile phone app...the fast food outlet...the musical...only kidding - but that is how exciting it feels to announce the fruits of our labour

With the kind support from The Victorian Womens Trust, 

Dur-e Dara OAM – Restauranteur & self-confessed foodie

along side Mary Crooks, Executive Director VWT

will celebrate the launch of My Mother's Harvest, a collection of family recipes & short stories.

this colourful book is more than just another cook book – it contains recipes from my childhood, flavours that have nourished three generations and stories that I can pass on to my children and grandchildren. The colour-filled book has been lovingly created and designed with the help of Bee Williamson and we raise a toast in celebration of mothers everywhere – so if you can make it, we would love to see you there...


The following excerpt comes from one of my stories in the book to give a sneak peek into the flavours of my Spanish-Aussie childhood.

 Heart of her Nest

Mum sneaks into my room and throws open the yellow curtains. ‘Close your eyes.’

I blink rapidly as a shaft of sunlight splinters across my pink bedspread. Dad follows closely behind and bursts into a familiar song, impersonating Spike Milligan from the Goons, and with a huge smile trills,

‘Happy birthday dear Maribubbles.’

Our curious hound, Caspar, wanders in to join the early morning party. Paul echoes a ‘happy birthday sis’ from his neighbouring room and as if Christmas had just arrived on my thirteenth birthday, I rip open my presents.

My eyes widen as I savour this moment, opening a box to reveal a riot of colour. Six nested tiers of delicious Derwent pencils. Velvet-smooth, round-barrelled, elegant waxy spires of seventy-two fine art pencils, and I cannot believe they are all mine.

I dive-bomb my gift-bearers, ignoring Caspar’s disapproving growl.


‘Pity you don’t like them.’ Dad laughs, attempting to free himself from the excited drop-bear clinging to his chilli-red cardigan. 


Sweeping up my wands of colour, I follow my mother to our sun-filled kitchen. Here in the heart of her nest, surrounded by the warmth of saffron tones, is where I feel most inspired to draw.

A wooden dresser towers on one wall, cluttered with pots of mum’s attempts of pottery. I watch my mother slip on a cotton apron and swiftly tie the straps in place. She throws me a smile and begins to prepare the rich tomato sauce for our Spanish brunch.




I trace patterns of dancing sunlight onto a blank page, blending delicate shades of primrose yellow and orange chrome that swirl before my eyes. Mum peeks over my shoulder and kisses the top of my head.

Dad enters the room and pulls out a chair. He moves the coffee cup mum has just poured to his left, encroaching onto my drawing territory guarded by Derwent soldiers. His large hands grip the inky pages of The Saturday Age, flicking them like clashing paper cymbals.

‘You can finish that later, darling,’ mum says, reaching for the padded oven gloves, ‘lunch is ready.’

One by one, Mum takes sizzling dishes out of the glowing oven. The spicy chorizo sausage smokes my brother out of his bedroom: happy to trade his six-string guitar for mum’s Eggs a la flamenca and put song writing fantasies aside to celebrate my birthday.

Mum serves each of us our fragrant meals, the felt gloves blackened with the heat of the silver dishes. She moves swiftly from oven to table, puffing little puffs as she warns us to blow the piping hot sauce. The edges of the oven poached eggs bubble in a sea of floating tomatoes. Plump peas wobble in the web of the egg white, virgin-olive oil, black olives and spicy sausage – a rich taste of Spain all over again.

Maribel with her Mother

‘before you were conceived I wanted you
before you were born I loved you
before you were here an hour I would die for you
- this is the miracle of love’

-Maureen Hawkins

To read more details about the book launch, where and when, or how to order a copy, visit my website:

www.maribelsteel.com

© 2013  Maribel Steel