Part 4 – It’s Touching to See the World

‘See how she leans her cheek upon her hand.
O that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!’

William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet)

What can inspire, dazzle, excite, bring joy, enliven all the senses? Could it be the poetic prose of the romantic poet: the colourful brush strokes reflecting an artist’s  impressions: the lingering chords playing with the heart strings strummed by a maestro, or the  crafted language given to us by a wordsmith? Visionaries and  artisans sharing their unique imprint on the canvas of life that offer a sensory feast to our souls.

But there is a magical world available to each one of us that can see with our eyes closed if we could be a little more in touch with that world. Please give your hands a big high-5 for feeling the world all around you.

As I stand at the gateway facing the ever-diminishing sense of sight, my view of the world would be dim indeed, if my hands were bound together, and never allowed to reach out and touch what my eyes fail to see.

As if eyes reside on the pads of my fingertips, often roaming hands glide and pat, fingers feel and fiddle with everything my hands come into contact with, in an attempt to perceive the world. Sometimes, my grown-up children would prefer I keep hands laced together on those occasions when they witness my close shaves with precariously balanced fruit and fragile homeware perched on store counters.

‘Mum. Stop touching everything!’ comes their plea.

I interpret this as, you can come shopping, but don’t touch the merchandise. Expected to stand empty-handed in a store while others look around is like being thirsty in a cafe where everyone is placing their drink orders and excluding yours. So naturally, I ignore their misguided request for tactile decorum and keep feeling items on shelves, clothes in racks, food in plastic wrapping – to satisfy my curious fingers and inquiring mind.

Touching treasures

 

 Family and friends who know me well will often place an item of interest into my open hand whenever they see something they know I would be allowed to touch and would enjoy ‘seeing’ too (possibly in an attempt to forestall fidgety fingers poised to lunge at items like a blind bull in a china shop).

Touch brings a deep sense of inclusion, where I can not only be brought into the picture of what others are seeing but I can also offer my own comments as I trace over the contour, feel the texture, delight in the shape of the item we are now both looking at.

Without wanting to sound like a touchaholic here, I have good reasons for my keen pursuit for tactile therapy, especially in retail stores and garden centres. To shop is an open invitation to touch: to touch is to see. I don’t have to buy anything I handle but where else is there such an open invitation for hands to browse? Not at a museum. Not at an art gallery. So naturally, my hands move around the goods on display on a market table, department store or garden nursery in a frenzied urge to oblige my all-seeing hands. I might add in my hands’ defence (your Honour) that seeing through the skilful movement of receptive fingers, they have rarely broken or damaged anything.

A Touch too keen

 

There have been a few times when my zealous partner has tried a little too hard to bring objects into my viewing hands. We were at a French museum when he gently guided my open palm to glide over an exhibit of a rare stuffed bird – until the curator came screaming towards us like a screeching banshee with its tail on fire! Harry shrugged his shoulders and held up my white cane with a baffled smile, nudging me away from the feathered bird, muttering an apology in French for my unrestrained actions.

On another occasion, while we were enjoying a romantic stroll through the scent-filled botanical gardens of Melbourne, Harry got the inspired idea to take me for a tactile tour around the cactus garden because rare flowers were in full bloom and large enough for me to see. Hesitantly, my fingers unfurled from the white cane to gently grasp the plant in his hand.

With much care and a deep intake of breath, I managed to avoid being spiked by the impressive serrated leaves of several cacti until Harry gathered up a fallen specimen from the mulched ground near our feet. He was so taken with the excitement of sharing nature’s little treasure, and to include me in seeing what he could see that, without thinking, he handed me the small fruit of the prickly pear, realising in the split second it took me to throw it back at him, that maybe, pulling out fine needle-like hairs from both our palms could have been better handled – if we had brought thick industrial gloves.

Blind parent – sighted child

 

When my son was very young, we shared a tactile communication: through puzzle play,clay moulding, Lego building, baking cookies. Michael learned to bypass my lack of sight by tracing shapes onto my open palm, knowing that when he did this, mummy could ‘see’ the object by drawing it. His little fingers tickled my palm and I held back tears of love for his thoughtfulness.



At kindergarten, we sat together on tiny wooden chairs by tiny wooden tables, feeling our way around puzzles. One particular day, the teacher was showing the little people how to bend paper to make a paper plane. Michael asked me for sighted guidance but I had no idea how to advise him. We persevered together, awkwardly turning the paper this way and that. If only I could see enough to help my son complete this simple task.


 ‘Now, just fold along this line, then turn the paper over this way and then…' the teacher held up her paper plane. The children gasped in awe.

‘Which way, Mummy?' Michael asked again. ‘Is this right?'

I replied, biting my bottom lip, 'What do you think, darling? Does it look like your teacher’s plane?'

He persisted with the folding of paper unaware of my silent tears. The teacher came over to our table, and rested a kind hand on my shoulder. My heart tripped with gratitude as she said to Michael,

‘Clever boy. That’s nearly right.’

Back in the comfort of our home, and away from scrutinizing eyes, we continued our tactile communication. We collected cards of all sorts and cut out magazine pictures, chatting about the images, pasting them into our own large scrapbooks, remembering the scenes on each page. We sang funny songs and silly rhymes to spark his imagination and, at night, we made up our own stories.

But one night, as I struggled to read his favourite ‘Mr Men’ book at bedtime, I put down the magnifying glass and sighed deeply, ‘Oh dear, this is very slow, isn’t it, darling?’

Michael jumped up from under the doona, threw his warm arms around my neck, and said, eyes alight, ‘Mummy, don’t ever give up. Please tell me one of your stories.’

MEET ME WITH WORDS

A poem by Sarah Martin


Sometimes I feel the ocean
Like seaweed fingers on my back

Sometimes I feel the sand
Brush away the past held in my eyes

Sometimes I feel the breeze
Encouraging my life to exhale

Sometimes I feel the sun
Melt the darkness set in my heart

Sometimes I feel the rip
Pull me back once again

Sarah Martin is a Melbourne based poet who shares her experience of Retinitus Pigmentosa (RP)  through creating poetry to melt away any darkness that tries to set in her heart. To read more of her inspired thoughts, you can visit her blog:

http://sarahjmartin.blogspot.com.au


Next post: The four main tools that live in my ‘blind tradie’ toolbox



© 2013  Maribel Steel

The Art of Being Blind Part 3 - Insight through Sound

‘If the eyes are the window to the soul, the voice is its true reflection.’
Anon

When I meet a person for the first time, I find that all my senses jump to attention. With a calm exterior and a slight sense of internal panic, I begin tracking clues in search of verbal body language, my blue eyes pretending to offer eye contact.

I often dive in and instigate a hand-shake, to both men and women, which may strike others as a little eager on my part – but my hidden agenda is to gather a tactile clue about their personality: is this a friendly and warm handshake or a guarded and dismissive flip of the wrist?

I do not judge people by their appearance, by their fashion statement, by their preference for make-up and hair style or the colour of their skin – but I must add that all my other senses, especially my hearing, are working overtime to interpret the tone of voice, because, what a person says, or more truthfully, how they say it, is my main clue to their body language (along with that initial hand-shake).

We may have only said ‘Hello’ in this exchange, but ears are patrolling the tonal quality of this one word. Believe me, how it is spoken reveals much more than you might think. I am looking for hints that tell me this person is giving off a genuine vibe or a guarded one. The voice appears friendly but then, is that nervous giggle hiding something: that acid-remark masking prejudice?

Many things may be hidden behind a polite smile but as I am not relying on the visual image here, my ears dive straight into judging the timbre, the quality and inflection of the voice.

Imagine a spider in her well spun web who becomes acutely aware with her sensitive receptors when an accidental intruder bounces onto the invisible threads guarding her territory. Well, I too receive information from the ‘vibes’ bouncing towards me, partly, it seems, through hearing, partly by trust and intuition.

Verbal signatures

The first and most powerful clue in recognising a person if you cannot see them is of course their accent. The thicker the style of inflection and pronunciation, the more obvious becomes their verbal-signature. This often stirs up excited Hobbit-like antennae within my hearing, keen to track more clues about their country of origin.

I delight in the melodic lilt of the Irish, the humourous phrases of a New Zealander, the seductive verbal caress of the French, the cautious monotone of a Russian, the passionate excitability of the Spanish!

Accents can also throw me off course, making me steer clear of  those annoying ones (especially if they belong to an ‘ex’ – either his or mine).

When an accent is not obvious, my hearing is eagerly listening for a style of voice, a distinctive tone, the delivery of speech as in a soft voice or a strident one. Some voices can sound so generic that harder listening is required for further gathering of concrete clues, and my lazy eyes must pay more attention: does this person have an unusual body feature like a beard, or do they have long hair or did I notice a glint of glass from a pair of specs? As much detail as possible flashes through the internal brain computer to store for easier recognition later.

But if a sense of heat creeps into my ears or an internal cautionary bell rings, I get the feeling all is not what it seems, making me guard my own body language while my fast and furious calculations try to sum up the person’s mixed messages.  

The clown in the middle

As sighted people use their eyes without thinking, I make similar use of my sense of hearing. When I enter a room my audio antennae seem to almost leap out of my head to pick up instant information within seconds – scanning back and forth through the closed environment.

 This can be overwhelming in a crowded venue as the barrage of sounds flood my senses and my ears strive to filter out all the things I don’t need to hear: the conversation on my left and conversation on my right, the coffee machine frothing with hot cappuccino, the CD player raging with old disco music, the bursts of loud laughter from people in the far corner, chairs scraping over the wooden floor, the clinking of glasses and cutlery, the orders being given to the waitress at the next table, the jingling mass of coins at the counter. That is when I have to harness my hearing and request, Please, ears, I feel like the clown in the middle here. Just listen to the person opposite me, OK?

Interpreting people’s body language while moving through a quick-paced, multi-sensory environment is not only challenging but exhausting! Imagine if your eyeballs had to travel along the ground with your feet to see where they were going or your eyes were being flashed every few seconds with bright lights as you are trying to drive a car or read a book. That is the equivalent of the effect of intrusive noise on my ears.

To filter the unwanted barrage of information as I tap my way down a busy city street (or even a quiet one) demands so much concentration, that no other thoughts are allowed to pester me if they do not relate to the very task at hand. So when a friend or loved one guides me, even though we have to move and concentrate as one, I can relax and enjoy the sound experience much more. 

Music to my ears

‘Hello – I’m Harry’ were his introductory words that serendipitous night ten years ago, when I met my partner for the first time. Three little words, nothing flash about them – ah, but it was the way he said them! His tone carried intrigue, warmth, a hint of good humour. His soft delivery of an English accent (especially in the boisterous music venue) made me pay closer attention to other words and their inflection because I too, was born in England and felt curious to know more about him, his music, his possible role in my life as a music producer.

It was his kind, yet slightly naughty giggle as we exchanged business cards that stirred something more than interesting conversation. Unexpected excitement and uncertainty at the same time awakened female intuition that spoke straight to my heart: I’m hearing you, Harry...

Big Ears

In our early musical collaboration days, while Harry and I listened to tracks in his cosy studio, the skilled producer configuring graphs and analysing coloured dots jumping around on his two computer screens, it became very apparent that my ability to listen acutely was an asset to the recording process.

Harry weaved his magic with the music tracks, sliding buttons up and down to make miniscule changes in the mix. Every now and then, he would turn to me and ask, ‘Does that sound better or worse, Big Ears?’
I felt both privileged and nervous to be included in the mixing process. What did little old me know about CD mixing and mastering? Harry had been doing this sort of thing for over thirty years, with over 250 CDs under his Producer’s belt. He was a brave man to ask such a novice assistant but the one thing I did know was what I could hear – and that was my certificate of competency!

This is the way it works in the recording studio. I shut my eyes and hear the smallest of details: an odd note, a vocal tone out of place, a subtle tap of a foot caught on the recording – the harder I listen, the deeper I can go into the sound. As Harry studies the kaleidoscope of colours, dots, wavy lines and a myriad of complex patterns on the screens, we both listen to the subtle changes on large studio speakers.

If a little click or some other unwanted sound catches our attention simultaneously, we know there is an error to correct. Sometimes we hear the same thing but at other times, possibly due to auditory exhaustion on Harry’s part, Big Ears is only too happy to pinpoint the glitches, not backing down until they are found on the screen.

There are times when the error is so vague to the sighted listener that I have to let it go. But at other quality control times, I feel a need to insist he find the tiny error. To Harry’s credit, even though this slows down the mixing process, when he finally locates the faint prickle to my hyper-sensitive ears, harmony is restored in the studio and the listening goes on…

Echo-location – will the real Batman please stand up!

Blind people have been following sound cues to help navigate safely in their environment for centuries. But a new technique, known as echo-location, is so amazing that it has to be heard to be believed.

Dan Kish is a Californian man with blindness, affectionately known as ‘batman’ who has pioneered the human version of echo-location. He has developed a skilled technique in which tongue-clicking is used like high-pitched bat noises to identify objects within his environment, without using any other portable aids.

The YouTube clip of Kish riding a bicycle using only echo-location has caught the attention of the world. A charity for the blind in Glasgow, called Visibility, is now teaching his human sonar technique to young blind children.

The non-profit organization founded by Dan Kish, World Access for the Blind, claims that teaching others to use Echo-location and tongue clicking can create a 360 degree ‘view’ of their surroundings.

To see what blind people can achieve with Echo-location, watch Dan Kish interviewed by Derren Brown:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PGMpswJtCdI

(Next post: Exploring one of my most favourite means of seeing)
© 2013 Maribel Steel