Could You Trust Your Ears?

   If you've stopped by here before, you might know that I volunteer at the CNIB. I was there yesterday to work one-on-one with a young Jamaican gentleman I have had the privilege of helping lately. He was telling me yesterday about his orientation and mobility worker spending time with him on practising how to get across busy intersections. When I asked him how it's going, he told me quite simply, "I am scared. I can't do it alone."
   I couldn't stop thinking about that yesterday. It stayed with me all day. When I went for a walk in the evening, his words were still bouncing around inside my head. I simply could not imagine what it must feel like to take that first step out into an intersection you can not see.
   As I was walking along, I came to a busy intersection, one that is still hustle and bustle even into the quieter hours of the evening. Here in Toronto, some of the main intersections have had audio signals installed to assist pedestrians who are blind or visually impaired. If pedestrians hear a “cuckoo” sound, they can cross in a north/south direction. A “chirp” means they can cross in an east/west direction. Silence indicates that pedestrians should not start crossing in any direction. Sounds good? Imagine trusting life and limb to a "cuckoo" sound, and hoping that there's no reckless driver bearing down on you in spite of the traffic signals. How could you be sure you heard them correctly above the din of rush-hour traffic? These audio signals are not even present at every intersection, and not every blind person has a dog to help them. My friend doesn't.
   The intersection I was standing at is one with no audio signals. I know that people such as my friend are coached to "listen carefully" to the sounds of the traffic. Yeah, right. So I stood there, and seeing that the red light was against me at the moment, I tried closing my eyes and listening for the change of sound that would tell me the light had changed. I concentrated for all I was worth, and realized almost immediately that I was listening to an indistinguishable cacophony. I persevered. After a moment, it seemed to me that the part right in front of me had gone quiet. I opened my eyes expecting to find the green light facing me and saw instead that it was still red. I tried again but found I had no faith at all in my ears keeping me safe, and I kept opening my eyes. It was bewildering. It was frightening to think of not being able to look before I stepped out. How will my friend be able to make his way about?
   If you have your vision, you have so very much.


   I continued on my way, trying to be very, very present in the moment, so as to free my mind of the disquieting thoughts. I wanted to feel and see the beauty around me again, instead of searching every inch for the possible pratfalls awaiting the visually impaired.
   I felt my way through my consciousness to find my arms and became aware of them. That was when I realized a soft breeze was playing tag with me, wafting its breath across my arms before it darted ahead of me. I centred my thoughts on my legs and revelled in the warmth of the afternoon sun, tingling its way down my shins. I raised my eyes to look ahead and see where my steps would lead me and I saw a private residence whose front yard was encircled by a low, brick wall. A jumble of ivy vines had splashed over the wall, dripping a cascade of lobed leaves down the bricks and sending questing tendrils out into the grass bordering the sidewalk. The jewel tones of the ivy's green, the sun and the breeze all served as becalming bounty provided by nature to send me on my way, my senses soothed.