My world is never singular, not self contained. A disability does this for you. I’m not free to imagine the vaporous abstract life privileged Americans believe is their right. I can say with both irony and confidence I’m OK with my representational life, one that’s misunderstood, mistaken, occasionally affirmed and always in the terrain of the outlier. I’m blind and people stare. Some imagine I must be poor. Some think I need the healing powers of prayer. Others believe I might be stupid or contagious. All in all I’m terribly real to pedestrians who see all their prejudices in me.
How can I say I’m OK with my representational life? “You’re alright with people wanting to pray for you?” you ask. I’m OK. Everyone in the world has sad appetites. Some want cake, others need primitive validations. Those lacking compassion and emotional irony want every stranger to be just like themselves. As I near 60 I recognize these sad appetites and know they’re not mine to feed. I’ve discovered some of the power of hopelessness—what Pema Chodron calls “not grabbing”. I don’t want to be you my friend; don’t want to hear about your unbridled hunger.
I am, in effect, becoming an old, hard nut—sweet on the inside, largely impervious in my circumference. This means I know happiness is small. Happiness is deliberative and minor. When I want “big happy” I listen to Beethoven. Minor happiness is walking safely to my destination. Its having an hour of contented and thoughtful conversation with a dear friend or a new friend. Its feeding the horse.
My moments of happiness are essentially about “not grabbing”—not wanting something more; not resolving the feelings of able bodied people who don’t “get” disability. I won’t be unkind. But I will only influence the world by indirection. Perfect. I think I’m starting to learn blindness after all.
Planet of the Blind 