I’m alone with my guide dog Caitlyn in the back bay of Boston. Tonight we’ll take in a ball game at Fenway Park, home of the Red Sox. Dog and man going solo to a stadium. Sometimes in this blind life I worry in advance: how will it go? Will everything be OK? Will I find my seat? Will I find my way back to my seat after searching for a hot dog? Will strangers be helpful? Will I experience kindness? Then in occurs to me, these questions are ordinary—everyone has them, blindness or not. Will this day receive me? How will it go?
There’s a song by the late great Lou Reed that I like which has the refrain “it takes a bus load of faith to get by…” I’ve always liked Lou’s employment of “faith” which he offers with a hint of irony to be sure. A bus load of faith is a crowd’s worth of faith—we will get where we need to go without mishap. And we’ll manage it because we all had the proper thoughts. We kept that bus on the road with our individual and collective magic. Faith is hard work.
I think this is why I like to just take off and go places by myself. Or with just my dog for company, I feel the skin of my faith grow tighter. I step out into the unfamiliar. I’m alert to the mysteries of being alive and the sheer improbability of having a consciousness. I walk down Boyleston Street and feel how provisionally alive I am and how lucky. And I don’t know precisely where I’m going.
I’ve been teaching this week at a wonderful low residency creative writing MFA program called “Solstice” located at Pine Manor College in Chestnut Hills. As a nonfiction writer I’m often talking about the essay—how creative prose can help us shape experience, make sense of the blooming buzz as they say. One may think of the essay as a soothing corral for the mind. Here is a shape in language within which we can rest, survey, feel a bit less panicked by the wideness of perception. Sometimes a horse, upon entering the corral is instantly calm.
And then there’s the horse who gallops into the shadows and sun beams with no idea where she or he is going.
I think that’s me just now. Enter the day. Get a little lost. Feel again the ache of amazement, that transverse cross of body and mind.
ABOUT: Stephen Kuusisto is the author of the memoirs Have Dog, Will Travel; Planet of the Blind (a New York Times “Notable Book of the Year”); and Eavesdropping: A Memoir of Blindness and Listening and of the poetry collections Only Bread, Only Light and Letters to Borges. A graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop and a Fulbright Scholar, he has taught at the University of Iowa, Hobart and William Smith Colleges, and Ohio State University. He currently teaches at Syracuse University where he holds a University Professorship in Disability Studies. He is a frequent speaker in the US and abroad. His website is StephenKuusisto.com.
Have Dog, Will Travel: A Poet’s Journey is now available for pre-order:
Barnes and Noble
(Photo picturing the cover of Stephen Kuusisto’s new memoir “Have Dog, Will Travel” along with his former guide dogs Nira (top) and Corky, bottom.) Bottom photo by Marion Ettlinger
One thought on “Alone in Boston, Guide Dog Notwithstanding”
Well I like this one a lot. I can identify with the notion of striking out into new, fresh territory. I can imagine how much more thrilling that would be were I not sighted. Have I told you how my friend Theresa, in a crowd moving away from 4th of July fireworks, handed me her cane, told me to close my eyes and feel the pavement, listen for the bodies around me, sense the size of the space? She took my arm! A little glimpse, so to speak, about a block long. I love her; she came out of an alcoholic coma with no core vision. She has your URL.
BTW, there’s no e in Boylston and only one hill in Chestnut Hill. It’s a New England thing.
When do you go to Macdowell?
On Fri, Jul 13, 2018 at 8:52 AM, Planet of the Blind wrote:
> skuusisto posted: “I’m alone with my guide dog Caitlyn in the back bay of > Boston. Tonight we’ll take in a ball game at Fenway Park, home of the Red > Sox. Dog and man going solo to a stadium. Sometimes in this blind life I > worry in advance: how will it go? Will everything be ” >