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Monday Jaunts Through Norman: Coffee, Chaos, and the Senses That Guide Me
Mondays have become my favorite kind of reset. While the rest of the world seems to groan its way back into the workweek, I lace up my shoes and head out for a long, slow walk around Norman, Oklahoma. There’s something deeply comforting about the familiar rhythm of these days: the aroma of fresh coffee, the distant buzz of college students stressing over exams, and the constant percussion of construction echoing through the streets.
This morning started, as so many good ones do, at Yellow Dog Coffee. I settled in with not one, but several cups, letting the rich, warm brew wake up my senses and my spirit. The place has that perfect small town coffee shop energy, friendly chatter, the hiss of the espresso machine, and just enough background noise to feel alive without being overwhelming. By the time my cousin arrived, I was properly caffeinated and ready for our weekly adventure.
He’s a young man, full of energy and in much better shape than I am these days. We set off together, stopping every so often so I could snap a few photographs along the way. I say “snap,” but for me, photography is less about perfect composition and more about capturing moments I want to remember later, textures, contrasts, and the way light feels even when my eyes don’t cooperate the way they used to. He never complains about the pauses. In fact, I sometimes wonder if he’s deliberately slowing his pace to match mine. Whether it’s kindness or just good patience, I’m grateful for it. These walks mean more to me than he probably realizes.
It was a beautiful afternoon in Norman, bright, breezy, and just windy enough to keep things interesting. The sky stretched wide and blue overhead, interrupted only by a handful of sparse clouds and the occasional crisp white contrail slicing across it. As someone who is legally blind and severely visually impaired, I’ve learned to lean heavily on my other senses during these outings. Sight might be limited, but the world still offers itself to me in vivid layers of sound, smell, and touch.
We’d pass by a tall building and suddenly I’d catch the sweet, delicate perfume of spring blossoms riding on the wind. A few steps later, the scent would shift dramatically to the sharp, unmistakable tang of urine lingering in a shadowed corner, or the heavy, skunk aroma drifting from one of the local weed dispensaries. Norman is full of these contrasts. One moment you’re breathing in the promise of new growth and Southern charm; the next, you’re reminded that every city has its raw, unfiltered edges.
And that’s okay. I love this town precisely because it can hold both truths at once. Norman is genuinely beautiful, with its friendly people, tree-lined streets, and that unmistakable college town energy that keeps it young and vibrant. The community here is warm and welcoming in a way that still surprises me sometimes. But I won’t shy away from the truth either; the good, the messy, and everything in between. That honesty, I think, is part of what makes this place feel like home.
Tonight I don’t have many words left in me. The walk was long, the coffee strong, and the company excellent. Instead of more storytelling, I’ll leave you with some of the photographs I took during today’s jaunt. They may not capture every scent or sound, but I hope they give you a glimpse of the Norman I walked through this Monday.
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Common Blind Questions Answered: My Journey
What It’s Really Like to Be Blind: Honest Answers from Someone Living It
Have you ever paused to truly wonder what life is like without sight? As someone that’s legally blind with five degrees of residual vision in my right eye, I’ve heard these questions countless times. I only became legally blind about a year ago, so I straddle both worlds: the sighted one I knew for most of my life and the blind one I’m navigating now.
In this post, I’ll share straightforward, personal answers to the most common curiosities about blindness, drawing from my experiences and conversations with friends in the community. My goal? To dispel myths, highlight realities, and show that blindness is a spectrum of adaptation, not limitation.
Do Blind People Blink?
Yes, we do. Blind people have eyes (real or prosthetic), and blinking is a natural reflex to keep them lubricated and free of debris. Sight has nothing to do with it; it’s basic eye physiology.
Do Blind People Dream?
Dreams are highly individual and depend on when (and if) someone lost their vision. People blind from birth often don’t have visual dreams at all. Research shows that congenital blindness means the brain doesn’t develop the same visual processing pathways, so visual imagery in dreams is rare or absent.
For those like me that had full vision for decades and only recently became legally blind, dreams remain crystal-clear, often in perfect 20/20 detail. Many of my blind friends who’ve been without sight longer report no visual elements in their dreams anymore; visual memory fades over time, and dreams shift to rely on other senses. It’s fascinating how the brain adapts.
Can a Blind Person See Anything?
Blindness isn’t all or nothing, it’s a wide spectrum. Legally blind covers a range from severe low vision to total blindness. The common claim is that only about 10% of legally blind people have no light perception at all (complete darkness, or rather, no visual input whatsoever). In my experience and from what I’ve heard, the number of people in total, absolute blindness (no light sense) is even lower, perhaps closer to 5% or less in many cases. Most people labeled “blind” retain some light perception: they can tell light from dark, notice bright sources, or even see vague shapes or contrasts. Those blind since birth often still sense light in subtle ways. The idea of “seeing nothing but black” is a myth; many experience no visual field at all, complete absence rather than darkness.
How Do Blind People Read?
Accessibility tech has revolutionized reading for us. Screen readers turn text into speech or braille output:
iPhones dominate in the blind community thanks to VoiceOver. It’s intuitive, powerful, and widely loved for seamless navigation.
Macs use VoiceOver, too.
Windows machines in the workplace often run JAWS (a paid screen reader) or the free, NVDA.
For tactile reading, braille displays are invaluable. They range from compact 20-cell models (like the NLS eReader for basic use) to advanced 40-cell ones (like the HIMS Braille eMotion). I rely on mine daily to read texts, emails, books, and articles. It’s direct, private, and fast. Braille isn’t dying; it’s evolving with refreshable displays that pair with phones and computers.
How Do Blind People Navigate the World?
Getting around is a mix of mental mapping, sensory awareness, and technology. I memorize routes: how many steps to the end of my street, which direction to turn at corners. Sounds are huge, traffic flow, echoes off buildings, audible pedestrian signals at crosswalks. I absorb a ton of environmental info without visual clutter.
Apps like Apple Maps with VoiceOver are game-changers: spoken directions, precise distance announcements, and haptic vibrations guide me turn-by-turn. Guide dogs, white canes, and orientation & mobility training help too. It’s about building reliable systems—once a route is learned, it’s second nature.
Do Blind People Have Better Senses?
No, this is a persistent myth. Our hearing, smell, or touch aren’t superhuman. We don’t magically gain enhanced senses. What changes is attention: without visual input dominating, we tune in more deeply to audio cues, vibrations, scents, and textures. My hearing is not great, but I pick up on subtle footsteps or air shifts when someone approaches because I’m not distracted by sights. It’s focus and practice, not biology.
How Do Blind People Cook or Shop?
Daily tasks like cooking become routine with adaptation and tools. Mornings, I often make my wife scrambled eggs: crack carefully (shells are the enemy), stir, melt butter, and gauge doneness by sound (sizzle changes), spatula feel, and timing from our specific stove setup. I’ve cooked eggs forever, so muscle memory kicks in. Instant Pots are lifesavers. Set timers and walk away. Helpful gadgets include talking thermometers, liquid level indicators (beeps when coffee reaches the rim), and cut-proof gloves for safe chopping.
Shopping? Online ordering handles most needs conveniently. In-store, Meta smart glasses read labels aloud and describe surroundings (aisles, products, signs)—tech like this boosts independence dramatically. It’s empowering.
Do Blind People Work?
Yes, and many excel in diverse fields: teaching, law, programming, entrepreneurship, counseling, and beyond. Assistive tech levels the playing field when workplaces embrace it.
That said, employment challenges are real and frustrating. Statistics vary by source and definition, but recent U.S. data (from places like the American Foundation for the Blind and National Research & Training Center) show employment-population ratios around 40-50% for working-age people with visual impairments, far below the 75-80% for those without disabilities. The true “unemployment rate” (among those in the labor force actively seeking work) is often around 8-10%, double the general population’s. However, a large portion (sometimes over 40%) aren’t even in the labor force. Older or outdated claims of “70% unemployed” often misapply stats by including everyone not working, not just the job-seeking unemployed.
Underemployment is huge as well, many capable blind people end up in part-time or lower-level roles. Why? Assistive tech (screen readers, braille displays, specialized software) can cost thousands upfront. Small businesses can’t afford the expense; larger ones hesitate over accommodations.
Vocational rehabilitation programs exist in every state, but outcomes vary. Some lead to fulfilling careers, others to low-pay box assembly jobs.
Blind people aren’t lacking intelligence or drive. In my biased view, the blind people I know are among the sharpest, most resilient, and wisest people out there. We’ve adapted to a world not built for us.
Stigma lingers: entering a coffee shop or store, I sense the stares, the awkward silences. But that’s okay, awareness changes minds. Technology advances daily: AI, better apps, inclusive design. All we ask is opportunity, a fair shot to contribute.
If this post sparked curiosity or shifted your perspective, that’s the win. Blindness reshapes life, but it doesn’t define it. We’re capable, creative, and ready when given the chance. Got more questions? I’m here to talk.
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Blob City
I’ve spent many sleepless nights trying to find the right words to describe what it’s like to go completely blind. It’s not like flipping off a light switch! For most people who are blind, about 90% according to the stats, there’s still something to see. Maybe it’s just light perception, like knowing the sun’s out there doing its thing, or maybe it’s catching a glimpse of colors, like a fuzzy rainbow. But for a few folks I know who’ve been completely blind since birth, sight is just one piece of the sensory puzzle, and they prove you can live a full, vibrant life without it. Me? I’m somewhere near the end, navigating a world of blobs, and let me tell you, it’s a wild ride.
Let’s get one thing straight: life without sight isn’t easy, but it’s absolutely worth living to the fullest. I mean, who needs 20/20 vision when you’ve got stubbornness, a good sense of humor, and a knack for dodging furniture? (I still bump into things, but I’m working on my ninja skills.) The world of blindness is filled with challenges, but it’s also brimming with possibilities. I love chatting with people about the tech that’s out there, like screen readers, smart canes, apps that describe the world like a chatty tour guide. But the real MVP in my life is Braille.
Braille is like the secret handshake of the blind community. It’s tactile, it’s elegant, and it keeps my brain as sharp as a tack. Fun fact: reading braille lights up the same part of your brain as reading with your eyes. So, while I’m running my fingers over those delightful dots, I’m basically doing mental push-ups. Without braille, I’m not sure I’d be as happy as I am today. It’s my bridge to a world of books, notes, and magazines.
I’ve been blind in one eye since I was a day old, thanks to a condition called Septo-Optic Dysplasia, which led to Optic Atrophy. Sounds like a villain from a sci-fi flick, right? Basically, it means my optic nerve cells are slowly checking out, like guests leaving a party early. Back in the 1970s, though, I didn’t let that stop me. I was just another kid, tearing around on bikes and motorcycles, channeling my inner Evel Knievel. Sure, I had more crashes than the average daredevil—my nickname was and still is “Crash”—but I didn’t care. My parents were my biggest cheerleaders, telling me I could do anything. I still believe them.
In January 2024, my doctor dropped a bombshell: “Stop driving.” The next month, another gut-punch: I had about two years of sight left. We hoped it’d stretch longer, but my vision had other plans. Right now, I’m down to five degrees of peripheral vision, and it’s blurry, like looking through a foggy window. Everyone and everything is a blob. My wife, Deana has been my rock through this whole journey, encouraging me to keep going, even when I’m tempted to throw a pity party for one.
Here’s what it’s like to live in Blob City. I can still pick up colors, so I might notice a red hat or a green shirt, but details? Forget it. Reading text is like trying to solve a puzzle in a windstorm. I have to stare at it forever, and it better be in font size “Billboard.” Walking, though, is my jam. It clears my head and usually puts me in a better mood. This morning, I strolled down to Green Valley Park, looped around the lake, and decided to grab Deana a drink from the gas station on the way back. Easy, right? Wrong.
I sauntered up to the cooler, ready to be the hero of hydration, only to remember I couldn’t read the labels. Picture me, squinting like a detective at a crime scene, trying to guess which bottle was Deana’s favorite. I grabbed one that looked vaguely familiar and hoped for the best. Then, a kind stranger piped up: “Need any help?” I could’ve hugged him. He confirmed I’d picked the right drink, then asked, “How’d you figure that out?” I explained my blob-vision situation, and he was surprised. Like most folks, he saw my white cane and dark glasses and assumed I was living in total darkness. Nope, just blob central.
That white cane and dark glasses? It’s like the unofficial “blind uniform.” People see it and assume I can’t see a thing, which is honestly a safe bet. I don’t mind the assumptions, better safe than sorry, right? Most people are just trying to help, and I’m grateful for it. I always say “thank you,” even if I don’t need the assistance. The other day, someone offered to guide me across the street, and I thought, Buddy, I’ve been crossing streets since disco was king. But I smiled, said thanks, and let them feel like a superhero. It’s a win-win.
The truth is, every blind person’s experience is different. Some of us see blobs, some see light, some see nothing at all. What we all share is the ability to adapt, to find joy in the little things, and to keep moving forward. For me, that means laughing at my own misadventures, like the multiple times I called a Mister a Misses or vice versa. That can get dicey really quick.
Losing my sight hasn’t been easy, but it’s taught me to lean into life’s unpredictability. I’m still the kid who rode motorcycles and dreamed big, just with a few more battle scars and a better sense of humor. With Deana by my side, braille to keep me sharp, and the occasional kind stranger to point me toward the right soda, I’m living a life that’s full, messy, and mine. So here’s to the blobs. May they always be colorful, and may I never stop finding the humor in this wild, blurry world.
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Stuck
As I pen this entry, I hope it will mark the end of a series of “blind” updates for some time. Have you ever found yourself in an inescapable predicament? My dialogue will carefully omit any direct reference to my employer, a vast global entity. Before the devastating prognosis of my impending blindness, and the ensuing revocation of my driving privileges, I found fulfillment in my profession and thrived on a perfect work routine.
My earlier schedule had me traveling to a neighboring town for work, beginning at 5:00 AM and ending at 1:30 PM from Monday to Friday. My return home was typically around 2:00 PM, allowing me the luxury of a brief rest before tending to household duties and at times, preparing dinner for my wife, Deana. This routine suited us well, allowing us to enjoy our evenings together, and even catch a movie after her workday had concluded.
Following the dire revelation about my vision, I was compelled to request a transfer to a branch within walking proximity to my home. This transition was protracted, lasting a month, with three weeks in which I received no compensation. My role in the corporation pertained to merchandising—a field I had not sought academic training for nor anticipated finding enjoyable. However, my penchant for order, structure, and meticulous tasks seemed to align well with the demands of the role.
Despite my capability and experience to perform my job without sight, the company reassigned me to an in-store position, with working hours slated from 1:30 PM to 10:00 PM on arbitrary days. My wife’s schedule has her leaving for work at 8:00 AM, during which I stay with our dogs until she returns at lunch to drive me to work. Consequently, we have been deprived of the cherished evenings we once shared. My new role demands squinting at minute details, which results in intense eye strain and headaches by day’s end.
While my employer has fulfilled the legal obligations, their support has not extended beyond that. My objections to this decision are manifold. I am naturally inclined towards early mornings, valuing the ability to complete my workday ahead of time and spend evenings with my loved ones.
Pursuing alternative employment remains a viable option, yet I am faced with the dilemma that full disclosure of my visual impairment may render me unemployable. While part-time work is attainable, it would compromise my access to quality health insurance. The coverage I currently hold is excellent, but parting ways with my job or reducing hours would precipitate a twofold increase in insurance costs. My wife’s insurance plan does not cover dependents, which further immobilizes me in my current role.
My aspirations for financial support through my blog and magazine, alongside print sales, have yet to yield significant results, though I express my deepest gratitude to everyone who has engaged with my work.
Under South Carolina’s regulations, disability benefits are inaccessible to me until my vision constricts to 20 degrees or less; currently, it stands at approximately 40 degrees. The Commission for the Blind is a resource, but its primary focus is to ensure employment for the visually impaired. Despite these challenges, I am determined to persevere in the hope of a breakthrough, but the everyday struggle is real, with a mortgage and other bills aligning with the fiscal responsibilities that many of us face.
It is not my intent to lament my circumstances; however, I cannot ignore the reality of the corner I seem to be trapped in. I am contending with Septo Optic Dysplasia and Optic Atrophy, amongst a long list of other challenges, and yet I take solace in the fact that I’m still able to provide for my family—this is undeniably a positive. The unwavering support from my wife, Deana, has been nothing short of heroic, and her strength is a blessing for which I am eternally grateful.
Should anyone have practical suggestions for additional sources of income, I would be keen to hear them. We seek your ideas and assistance. While I seldom mention it, there is a tip jar situated on the right side of the blog—for those inclined to support my endeavors with the equivalent of a coffee, it would be greatly appreciated. In my forthcoming post, which you can expect on Monday, I will discuss my preferred and reasonably priced folding medium format camera.
While I have pursued photography as a business venture for several years, it has not been financially lucrative for me. The ordeal nearly overwhelmed me at times. Nevertheless, it is an endeavor that brings tranquility to my spirit. Its absence would leave a void within me — for it is intricately tied to my identity.
I am the individual who approaches others with enthusiasm about cameras, only to reveal that I am progressing towards blindness. This revelation often elicits surprise and confusion; however, I find a certain satisfaction in such reactions. People are strange, but so am I.
It is my intention to share my narrative with you, one that intertwines simplicity with complexity. I invite you to subscribe to this blog for further insights and to explore more of my photographic journey.
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Walking With a Blind Cane
Living with vision impairment involves constant learning and adaptation, and my recent experiences have truly highlighted this journey. Participating in orientation and mobility training with a specialist from Columbia was not just an educational endeavor, but a life-affirming one. The specialist displayed a remarkable combination of professional expertise and compassionate support that has empowered me in ways I hadn’t imagined possible.
Navigating the world without full sight is fraught with potential hazards. While the technical jargon is vast, the fundamental goal remains straightforward: avoid accidents, whether with vehicles, bicycles, or obstacles on the path. Mastery of the blind cane is crucial in this respect. The various tips that adorn the cane—a marvel of simple design—are surprisingly communicative, furnishing tactile feedback about the ground underfoot and the obstacles flanking the path.
A mundane commute can be a gauntlet for those with visual impairments. My daily journey involves a half-mile trek along a sidewalk that is not always in the best of repair. Here, the cane serves as an invaluable ally, probing the terrain for perils and helping me maintain a straight course. Transitioning from sidewalk to road signifies an escalation in risk, and it is here that a careful pace and keen hearing become my guardians against the dangers that quiet electric cars, like a Tesla, might present.
The complicated intersections are a particular concern. One such crossing I regularly navigate requires traversing four lanes of traffic, set at an unusual angle, lacking the guidance of audible pedestrian signals. Here, the life-saving virtues of patience and acute listening are never more apparent. The near-silent approach of electric vehicles heightens the peril, making it essential to rely upon one’s auditory senses to a degree that those with vision might find hard to fathom.
The message I wish to impart to drivers is one of vigilance and empathy. Keep watch for those of us with canes; these are not mere accessories but vital tools signaling the presence of a visually impaired or blind person navigating the byways and thoroughfares you share. I brandish my cane not just for personal navigation and safety but also as a clear signal to you, the driver, alerting you to my presence and my needs. This cane is for depth perception when negotiating rough terrain and a visible beacon to declare my visual limitations to the surrounding traffic.
Our roads, our paths, they are shared spaces. As participants in this communal realm, we bear a collective responsibility to ensure safety for all members, especially those who confront these spaces without the benefit of sight. The kindness drivers display in being mindful of visually impaired pedestrians like myself makes an indelible difference; it makes these journeys less daunting and the world a little more accessible, one thoughtful act at a time.
