A License to Laugh

HUMOUR – is one of the most useful tools that live in my blind tradie toolkit. I honestly don’t know how I would face the barrage of internal frustrations as a vision-impaired person or the awkward social transactions with sighted people if not for humour. Finding the humour within difficult situations is not a flippant response to tragedy or loss, it is not denial of the truth either. 

Humour is a tool that has the capacity to open the heart and unlock the gift of laughter to any soul seeking the truth. Seeing the ‘funny’ side of life when it could also be seen as ‘tragic’ is a tool worth its weight in gold.

"Through humour, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it."

Bill Cosby

I think I was fortunate to realise at the time of my diagnosis of Retinitis Pigmentosa (RP) at the tender age of fifteen that there was one ultimate quality impending blindness could not take away from me: a darkening horizon foreshadowed great loss but it would not smother my sense of humour.

It was up to me – whether to laugh or to cry – and often, after the storm clouds of frustration had cleared, a rainbow of laughter appeared. With the realisation that as a young girl life was much harder if taken too seriously, I would adopt the wisdom of humour, the colours of laughter.

I have found humour to be a wonderful mechanism that plucks out the negative weed-thought and encourages the germ of good thoughts to sprout instead.

I was also fortunate that my parents loved British comedy and exposed their two children to the satire of The Goon Show, the antics of Monty Python, the insanely funny Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers, and later, the best of British sarcasm in the TV program, Fawlty Towers.

When life’s frustrations challenge my sense of humour to action, the little ditty from The Life of Brian echoes merrily in my head...always look on the bright side of life...whistle, whistle...

Laughter is a Gift

If you can use internal eyes to peer through the hardships to a surreal vantage point where the irony of an awkward situation is revealed, you can shine humour onto the embarrassed faces of all involved. Let me explain...

It was a cheerful autumnal day, a thick carpet of leaves covered the quiet Melbourne Street. I swept a neat swathe through the leaf litter, tapping a path while most probably singing a happy ditty about ‘look out, bin...take a step...watch out, pole...please stop, car...’ when suddenly, my foot stepped into a soft patch in the pavement.

Obviously I had not seen a small sign on the grass that read WET CEMENT. Nor had I noticed the man crouched down over a patch of pavement and so, I delivered a dainty footprint smack bang in the middle of his artwork.

A few colourful expletives escaped the man’s mouth. I braced myself expecting the council worker to jump up and threaten me with his trowel and confront me face to face. I stood motionless, foot sinking deeper into the wet cement.

The mumbling man took a sideways glance at the carbon fibre cane poised by his knee.

“Oh sorry, love,” he apologised, throwing down the trowel, suddenly changing his tune.

His readiness to forgive my transgression as he guided me away from the wet patch of cement, joking “it’s all good, love”, (when I knew it wasn’t) and wishing me a good day, relieved my embarrassment and made me smile. Being blind certainly does often work in my favour some days.

The more I relax into my skin as a woman with blindness, the more insights I glean into the psychology of men. Ah ha! – got your attention now? Well, I have a fascinating discovery to share with you. We all know that a lighthearted approach when meeting someone of the opposite sex for the first time can ease tension but I have found, without fail, that men greet a woman like myself (with a measure of blindness) in one of TWO ways. It goes a little like this:

“Hi. I’m...” he says.

“Hi, I’m Maribel. I’m vision-impaired.” I add, thrusting an over-friendly hand in his direction in case he is standing there with his hand in mid air. Oh, no, he wasn’t. Oh well, we shake hands anyway and I cover my embarrassment by adding, “I can’t see you, sorry.”

Now it is over to him. I wait with a smile, knowing this man will offer one of two responses to help ease the tension or to hide his surprise.

“Oh. That’s a pity. So you can’t see how good looking I am?”

OR... he will say,

“Don’t worry. You’re not missing much.” Indeed, laughter is a gift we give to ourselves and to others.

 

Who’s Blind?

Many single moons ago, I went into a local pub with a girlfriend. As we weaved past tables and chairs together through the chaos, my friend plonked me down on a stool by the bar. She recognised two male friends sipping pints of beer, minding their own business until we came along.

“Hey guys. What are you doing here?” She spoke a tone too loud. “Meet my friend, Maribel”

One of the fellows swung around on his stool, offering his hand which I did not see.

My friend burst into embarrassed laughter. “That’s not going to help. She can’t see you, she’s blind” 

Reaching over a little closer and taking my hand in his, he said with a drunken slur,

“Don’t worry love, in a couple of hours I’ll be just as blind as you are!”

Bless him...

  

When humour stays at home

With all respect and for the sake of my blind friends, I want to acknowledge that life can seem far from being a joke – that life can be cruel and the sun does not shine every day. It is often the small little thing, like the straw that breaks the camel’s back that can break down all our defences and have us in tears. 

Only yesterday, I experienced the irony of humour staying at home while drafting this article on the brilliant tool that lives in my toolkit. I must have picked up the wrong handbag from the hall stand (void of my tools) before I left the house because when I was shopping at our local supermarket, battling my way through the maze of confused shoppers, uncontrollable trolleys and the worst of 1980s music, someone had taken away my basket of goodies that had taken ages to locate – and I didn’t see this as funny.

 I rummaged around in my bag but humour was no where to be found. In fact, I was outraged and almost went crazy with indignation. I considered throwing down the large box of Corn Flakes in my arms to the ground to use as my soapbox.

“Listen up, people.  Who stole my basket? Don’t you know how hard it is for a blind person to find anything in your sighted world?”

I huffed and I puffed and I tried to blow away the injustice of blindness but all that came tumbling down was my own defeated attitude. I raced home, crying as I whacked the cane hard on the pavement and crawled into bed, sheltering under the doona.

“So where were you today?” I scolded my sense of humour. “I could have done with a little bit of help from you? To my surprise, humour replied wisely:

“Blindness is an attitude. You can choose to laugh or to cry. When you make a choice to see your life as limited and full of obstacles, it’s pretty hard not to cry.”

Feeling less angry with the world and more willing to see humour’s point of view, I peeked out from under the doona. “So you think I have a choice?”

“You sure do.” Humour began to laugh. “Man, I would have loved to have seen you on your Corn Flake soap box!”

“Now that would have been funny,” I agreed with a smile.

“See. You got it,” said Humour, tickling my funny bone once more. 

" On this spot 1st April 1780 - Nothing Happened"

© 2013  Maribel Steel

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